THE  HAUNTING 


BY 

G.   A.   DAWSON-SGOTT 

AUTHOR  OF  "ANNA  BE  AMES,"  "MBS.  NOAEBS," 
"AGAINST  THB  GBAIN,"  ETC. 


"Nothing  but  infinite  pity  is  sufficient  for  the  infinite 
pathos  of  life" 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED   A.   KNOPF    :    MCMXXII 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  by  the 
Garden   City   Press,   Letchworth 


TO 
YOU 


DREAM. 


/  had  a  dream  of  a  merciful  Christ, 

A  dream  that  all  those  old  stories  were  true, 

That  I  heard  a  voice  say?  out  of  the  mists  of 

Death, 

To  him  that  hath  suffered  much,  much  is  forgiven. 

Strange  dream  !     Oh,  veriest  dream  !     Yet  a  sweet 
Dream. 

(By  G.  R.  MALLOCH.) 


2138047 


A  Series  of  FOUR  NOVELS  on  the  Handicaps  of 

Life: 

I.    WASTR ALLS— The  Handicap  of  Circumstance. 
II.   THE  HEADLAND*-The  Handicap  of  Heredity. 

III.  THE  HAUNTING— The  Handicap  of  the  In- 

explicable. 

IV.  THE    CORNISH    MOORS— The  Handicap  of 

Chance. 


CHAPTER   I 


MR.  CORLYON  stood  before  the  mirror  in  his  white 
shirt-sleeves,  the  razor  in  his  hand,  and  lather  covering 
his  cheeks.  He  must  hurry.  He  had  to  shave  and 
dress,  and  at  any  moment  Antiks  Hellyar  might  call 
up  the  stair,  "  Young  Maister  be  comin'  down  street." 

He  must  be  at  the  front  door  to  welcome  his  brother. 
Not  once  during  the  years  of  Pascoe's  roving  had  he 
failed  to  be  there.  He  had  opened  the  door  as  the 
lad  walked  up  the  path,  had  drawn  him  into  the  warm, 
bright  house,  had  closed  the  door  on  the  accomplished 
fact  of  his  return. 

Of  the  long  family  only  they  two — the  eldest  and 
the  youngest — were  left  and  it  was  for  Mr.  Corlyon, 
abiding  in  the  little  waterside  town,  to  remind  his 
brother  that  the  walls  and  roof  to  which  he  returned 
from  his  voyages  were  not  only  a  shelter.  The  boy, 
while  adventuring  on  blue  and  green  and  grey  seas, 
should  bear  the  brown  house  in  his  mind  as  something 
glowing,  a  something  to  which  his  heart  of  a  wanderer 
must  eventually  turn. 

He  might  come  at  any  moment  and  Gale  Corlyon 
was  not  ready.  That  business  of  Buddie's  horse  had 
kept  him  longer  than  he  had  supposed  it  would.  Diffi- 
cult to  convince  Shugg  that  as  he  had  let  the  animal 
down  he  must  pay,  that  to  do  otherwise  would  be 
unprincipled. 


10  THE  HAUNTING 

He  wiped  the  lather  from  pale  smooth  cheeks  and 
taking  the  scissors  clipped  his  moustache  a  little  closer. 
A  moustache  gave  the  final  touch  of  masculinity  to  a 
face.  He  liked  the  rough  feel  of  his.  Other  men  had 
moustaches  that  stuck  out,  or  hung  down  ;  but  his 
curved  in,  lying  above  his  thin  well-cut  lips  like  a 
defiance.  He  cut  the  edges  of  the  hard  black-grey 
hairs.  He  would  not  have  his  lips  hidden. 

It  was  fortunate  that  he  had  brushed  his  suit  before 
going  to  meet  Shugg  and  Buddie,  for  now  he  had  only 
to  change  out  of  his  work-a-day  clothes.  He  had 
worn  the  same  suit  last  time  Pascoe  came  home. 
As  he  fastened  the  smoked-pearl  buttons  of  his  waist- 
coat, he  glanced  at  his  reflection.  It  paid  to  have 
your  clothes  cut  by  a  good  tailor.  They  were  growing 
shabby,  but  they  still  set  off  his  young  figure  of  a 
middle-aged  man.  He  pulled  his  waistcoat  into 
place,  settled  the  new  tie.  Blue  was  becoming  to  his 
clear  skin  and  clear  eyes,  while  the  small  white  spot 
added  a  note  of  gaiety.  The  old  well-brushed  suit,  the 
steep  hard  collar,  the  fresh  tie.  Pascoe  should  feel 
that  the  stay-at-home  was  as  well-looking  a  chap  as 
any  he  had  seen  on  his  travels  ;  that  he  was  not  neces- 
sarily dead  to  the  ferment  of  life  because  he  had 
chosen  to  remain  in  Stowe. 

He  smiled,  confidential  fashion,  at  the  reflection — 
extraordinarily  black  and  white — in  the  mirror. 
Pascoe's  life  of  a  wanderer  made  him  the  pebble  rolling 
on  the  floor  of  the  seas.  He  might  learn  something 
of  human  nature,  but  what  did  he  know  ? 

People  did  this  and  that,  but  what  made  them  do 
it  ?  He,  Gale  Corlyon,  had  spent  his  life  in  Stowe  and 
he  knew  not  only  what  was  done  in  the  houses  huddled 
at  the  head  of  the  harbour,  but  why  it  was  done.  Oh, 


THE  HAUNTING  11 

how  much  he  knew  .  .  .  the  men  and  the  women 
.  .  .  they  made  their  faces  into  shop -windows,  but 
behind,  on  shelves  and  in  drawers,  were  the  goods, 
the  secrets  of  their  interesting  lives. 

When  the  shutters  were  up,  the  shop  closed,  he 
could  lift  the  latch  of  the  side -door.  He  could  go  in 
because  he  had  a  finger  in  the  little  pies  simmering  on 
the  various  hobs.  Fifty  years  in  Stowe  and  he  the 
cleverest  man  in  it.  To  whom  else  could  people  turn 
when  they  were  bothered  ?  The  parson  would  have 
admonished,  doctor  and  lawyer  would  have  sent  in  a 
bill,  but  he  ... 

He  liked  being  of  use  and,  because  he  never  talked, 
he  was  safe.  The  people  knew  that. 

They  could  trust  his  wisdom  and,  also,  his  discretion. 

And  the  secrets  .   .   . 

It  was  godlike  to  know,  to  have  behind  his  white 
silence,  like  sheep  under  snow,  this  knowledge.  After 
all,  his  was  a  more  interesting  life  than  that  of  Pascoe 
who,  though  for  ever  seeing  new  things,  saw  only  the 
surface  of  these  things,  who  never  penetrated,  who 
knew,  dear  lad,  nothing. 

A  scatterbrain  .  .  .  would  have  scattered  money 
too,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Gale  .  .  .  did  scatter  what 
he  earned.  A  pity  that,  but  as  long  as  he  remembered 
to  buy  where  his  ship  touched  and  to  bring  home 
what  he  had  bought,  Gale  would  be  able  to  fill  those 
brown  skin  bags  of  his  with  the  proceeds,  able  to  "fat- 
ten his  pigs,"  to  fatten  them  against  his  and  Pascoe's 
old  age. 

This  time  Pascoe,  in  his  letter  home,  had  said 
"  emeralds."  An  intriguing  word — emeralds. 


12  THE   HAUNTING 


ii 

If  the  ship  had  got  into  Plymouth  yesterday,  he 
should  have  been  home  by  now.  He  had,  of  course, 
to  dispose  of  the  emeralds  ;  but  he  knew  the  byeways 
of  Plymouth  better  even  than  the  highways,  and  was 
no  bad  hand  at  a  bargain. 

He  would  not  have  let  the  buyers  detain  him — not 
long.  Perhaps,  though,  he  had  reached  Stowe  and 
had  been  buttonholed  by  some  gossip  as  he  came 
through  the  streets.  He  knew  everybody — had 
known  them  since  his  babyhood. 

Mr.  Corlyon  looked  from  his  window.  Men  were 
unloading  a  collier  on  the  other  side  of  the  harbour, 
a  smack  was  heading  for  the  wharf  of  the  fish  market ; 
but,  on  the  road  that  ran  along  the  side  of  the  quay, 
there  was  no  sign  of  the  familiar  figure. 

He  could  only  see  as  far  as  the  opening  of  the  street 
through  which  his  brother  must  come.  No  one  ! 
But  the  house  had  a  side -aspect.  From  Pascoe's 
room  he  could  see  up  French  Street  as  far  as  the  Corn- 
ish Arms. 

He  crossed  the  landing,  the  shadowy  landing  with 
the  white  curtains  and  the  plants  and,  further  down, 
the  doors  of  disused  rooms.  That,  opposite  to  his, 
belonged  to  Pascoe.  During  the  three  months  of  his 
absence  it  had  been  a  chrysalis,  now  it  displayed 
hangings  and  coverlet  and  the  shining  surfaces  of 
walnut  wood.  Mr.  Corlyon  looked  between  the  dimity 
curtains,  looked  over  the  bushes  of  purple  veronica, 
and  up  the  road. 

At  the  head  of  the  quay,  on  the  old  men's  bench, 
Spargo  and  Abel  Prior  were  sitting.  A  cat,  careless  of 


THE  HAUNTING  13 

dogs  and  men,  was  sauntering  across  the  road,  a 
great  grey  cloud,  pregnant  with  rain,  hung  over  the 
town.  The  shops,  low  bands  of  colour  on  either  side 
of  the  way,  ran  from  the  opening  of  the  street,  up  hill 
and  over.  Mr.  Corlyon  looked  sharply  for  what  he 
sought.  Instinctively,  he  had  glanced  first  at  the 
baby-linen  shop.  There,  if  anywhere,  but  no,  no 
horse  was  tethered  to  the  wall-staple. 

It  was  evidence  Pascoe  was  not  in  the  low-raftered 
shop,  talking  to  Jenifer  Liddicoat.  Something  in  the 
man  checked  and  resumed  at  a  lesser  speed.  Pascoe 
must  be  still  on  his  way. 

But  he  had  better  hasten  or  he  would  be  caught  by 
the  rain.  Anyway,  as  the  roan  mare  had  not  yet 
topped  the  hill  that  sloped  to  the  flat  grey  edge  of 
the  harbour,  his  brother  would  have  time  to  go  round 
the  house,  see  everything  was  in  order. 

Pascoe's  room  .  .  .  clean,  neat  .  .  .  Antiks  knew 
her  work.  Mr.  Corlyon  stopped  at  the  mantelshelf, 
looked  at  the  row  of  cartes-de-visite  behind  the  opaque 
blue  vases.  Jenifer  Liddicoat's  photo  .  .  . 

He  had  not  taken  it  with  him,  then  ? 


in 

In  the  kitchen,  Antiks  Hellyar  was  wetting  flour 
>for  cake.  She  stood  in  front  of  the  table,  her  sleeves 
rolled  above  dimpled  arms,  a  big  plain  apron  covering 
her  blue  cotton  frock,  rounding  up  over  her  breast, 
out  from  her  jimp  waist,  out  over  her  hips.  Mr. 
Corlyon  on  his  tour  of  inspection  had  reached  the 
work-a-day  centre  of  the  house.  He  smiled  at  Antiks. 
She  was  not  young  now,  the  hussy,  but  she  was  still 
pretty.  That  dark  hair  of  hers,  curling  round  her 


14  THE   HAUNTING 

forehead  and  her  softness — he  did  not  wonder  the 
men  could  not  leave  her  alone — and  she  worked  in  his 
kitchen. 

"  Push  in  a  few  sticks,  Maister,  your  fire  don't  go 
ahead  like  our'n  do." 

On  the  pane  the  quick  rain  drummed,  streaming 
down  the  glass,  blurring  the  view  of  grey  outhouses, 
of  the  lane  at  the  side,  changing  the  hill  at  the  back 
into  a  dark  wall.  Mr.  Corlyon,  crossing  to  the  big 
basket  of  fuel  that  stood  under  the  window,  thought 
of  Pascoe,  riding  across  high  open  land,  pushing 
through  the  rush  of  water.  Poor  weather,  indeed,  a 
poor  welcome.  They  must  see  he  had  his  favourite 
food  .  .  .  open  a  bottle  of  wine. 

"  Did  you  buy  a  hog's  pudding  ?  " 

Antiks'  mouth,  lifting  at  the  corners,  revealed 
strong  regular  teeth.  So  many  women,  old  and  young, 
were  snaggle-toothed,  but  not  she.  '  'Ow  do  'ee 
think  I  can  get  'og's-puddin'  when  ole  Billy  'aven't 
killed  the  pig  ?  " 

"  Thought  he  was  going  to  do  it,  Saturday?  " 

"  Ole  sow  wadn't  fit  to  kill — you  knaw  moon's 
batin'." 

"  So  it  is." 

She  shook  her  head  at  him.  "  You  a  country-man 
and  not  know.  Us'll  'av  to  wait  till  next  week  for 
puddins." 

The  warmth  of  the  kitchen,  as  well  as  a  certain  inner 
stir,  made  him  linger.     His  feet  were  always  cold. 
He  would  sit  for  a  moment  in  thecorner  of  the  settle, 
stretch  them  to  the  fire. 

There  was  no  hurry.  Pascoe,  if  he  were  on  the 
road,  would  house-up  somewhere  .  .  .  some  farm 
.  .  .  cottage.  "  What  have  you  for  supper  ?  " 


THE  HAUNTING  15 

"  There  be  the  bit  of  bacon  boilin'  and  this  rabbit  - 
pie  is  ready  to  bake."  Antiks  fetched  the  round  black 
baking  iron,  put  pie  and  cake  and  pasties  on  it,  and 
fitted  the  baker  over  all.  A  fire  of  stick  embers, 
roofed  in  with  turf  .  .  .  nothing  better.  She  opened 
out  a  space,  pushed  in  the  baking  iron,  covered  all  with 
the  dark  sods. 

"  By  time  'e  come,  it'll  be  done  lovely,"  she  said 
and  stood  at  ease.  After  the  long  hours  of  work, 
good  to  have  an  idle  moment,  a  craik  with  "  Maister." 
Her  blue  eye  turned  appreciatively  on  the  lounging 
figure,  found  that  he  was  studying  her,  found  that  in 
some  fascinating  way  his  face  had  changed.  He  had 
come  in  cold  and  with  his  snowy  look,  now  he  was 
young,  eager.  Her  heart  seemed  to  sink  under  a 
happy  burthen,  to  fall  away. 

"  Come  over  here,  Old  Easy-Daisy,"  and  he  pulled 
her  onto  his  knee. 

"  Now,  give  over,  do." 

He  turned  her  face  deliberately,  put  his  lips  to  her 
mouth,  found  it  ripe,  willing. 

"  Who  is  after  you  now  ?  " 

"  Don't  'ee  talk  about  it,  there  'edn't  no  one." 

"  What  about  Jacky  Trudgian  ?  " 

She  stirred  in  his  arms.  Jacky  ...  if  she  had 
cared  for  Jacky  and  she  was  not  going  to  admit  it  ... 
anyway  that  was  away  back  last  winter  !  Nobody 
now  .  .  .  unless  .  .  .  yes,  she  did  like  the  "  Maister," 
but  he  did  not  care  for  her.  He  only  took  her  because 
she  was  there.  If  she  had  had  any  sense,  she  would 
have  married  Jacky,  settled  down  with  him  ;  but  no, 
she  could  not,  not  while  the  "  Maister  "... 

"  Jacky  be  goin'  to  Mexico  and  I  be  glad.  Don't 
want  any  of  they  bothering  round." 


16  THE  HAUNTING 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  "  No,  you  don't  want  any 
of  them,  do  you,  Antiks  ?  " 

He  was  teasing  her,  but  it  was  the  truth.  She  had 
not  run  after  the  men,  and  yet,  somehow,  she  seemed 
to  get  mixed  up  with  them.  Difficult  to  say  "  No," 
difficult  to  go  on  saying  it  ...  yes,  especially  when 
you  liked  them.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  children  • 
but  poor  little  dears,  they  came  .  .  . 

"  There  be  one  thing  I  can  say  ;  I  never  m'aae 
nobody  pay  for  what  'e  'ad  and  I've  been  always  able 
to  work  for  the  children  as  God  sent  me." 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  take  it  ?  The  children  are 
nothing  to  do  with  the  mei^  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  'ee  be  silly,  Maister,  talking  such  stuff." 

She  had  four  children  and  he  knew  the  men  who  had 
fathered  them  ;  but  he  knew,  too,  that  easy  as  she 
was,  her  easiness  had  dropped  away  since  she  had  been 
working  in  his  kitchen.  His  hand,  stroking,  slightly 
pinching,  passed  up  her  arm.  Pretty,  every  bit  of 
her,  and  warm,  made  for  love. 


In  the  brown  sitting-room,  the  fire  had  been  lighted, 
the  table  laid  for  supper  ;  laid  with  silver,  with  cut 
glass.  The  best  cloth  had  been  got  out,  the  old 
Sunderland  ware.  Antiks  had  understood  that  for 
Pascoe  he  wanted  the  best.  The  lad  was  to  see  he 
was  thought  of,  prepared  for. 

Mr.  Corlyon  looked  about  the  room.  The  peat  in 
the  fire-basket  was  burning  dully.  That  last  load 
from  St.  Wenn  had  not  been  worth  the  cost,  the  sods 
were  both  thin  and  damp.  He  must  speak  to  Hen- 
wood  about  it.  If  he  paid  good  money,  he  wanted 


THE  HAUNTING  17 

money's  worth.     A  few  sticks,  a  dry  motte,  and  the 
fire  would  blaze. 

At  the  end  of  the  room  was  a  heaped  yet  tidy  desk. 
Business  meant  papers,  and  Corlyon  not  only  had  his 
business  of  an  auctioneer,  but  that  quiet  finger-in- 
eyery-pie  business,  the  business  that  brought  him 
Cresting  information,  which  brought  him — was  it 
Bovver  ?  If  it  was,  he  made  no  use  of  it.  Of  course 
not.  He  was  a  man  of  principle. 

A  few  rubber  bands  and  the  mass  was  so  much  re- 
duced that  the  lid  could  be  shut  and  the  key  turned. 
Not  that  Pascoe  was  curious,  but  when  you  were  the 
repository  of  other  people's  secrets,  you  could  not 
be  too  careful. 

He  glanced  from  the  well-brushed  floor-cloth  to  the 
rubbed  mahogany  sideboard,  from  the  sideboard  to 
the  curios  on  the  wall,  the  curios  Pascoe  had  brought 
from  foreign  parts.  Antiks  had  wanted  to  rub  the 
blood  from  the  head-hunter's  spear,  and  had  been 
told  that  on  no  account  must  she  touch  the  weapons. 
Her  master  looked  at  the  spear  closely — the  one  dirty 
thing  in  the  room — dull  dark  metal  and  darker 
smears.  A  man's  blood.  A  queer  world  where  the 
soldier  got  honour  and  love  o'  women  for  taking 
life,  while  if  the  civilian  saw  red  he  swung  at 
Newgate. 

That  was  because  the  odds  were  uneven.  When  the 
soldier  slew  it  was  nation  against  nation  ;  but  the 
ordinary  citizen,  avenging  his  private  quarrel,  was 
fighting,  not  his  enemy,  but  the  community.  A  man 
might  no  longer  take  his  spear  in  his  hand,  challenge 
his  enemy,  and  fight  with  him  to  the  death.  In  such 
a  contest  the  winner  would  be  the  loser,  for  the  com- 
munity would  hang  him.  The  dirty  old  spear  stood 


18  THE  HAUNTING 

for  a  clean  way  of  fighting,  for  something  at  once  fierce 
and  jovial. 

Above  the  spear,  higher  on  the  brown  wall,  was  a 
quiver  containing  half  a  dozen  tiny  arrows.  A  more 
deadly  weapon  that — one  scratch  and  you  were  as 
good  as  dead.  Mr.  Corlyon,  looking  from  the  spear 
to  the  arrows,  dwelt  thoughtfully  on  the  latter.  The 
weapons  of  the  pigmy,  of  the  out-classed.  Not  a 
clean  way  of  fighting  .  .  .  why  not  though  ?  A  man 
fought  to  kill. 

Idly,  his  glance  on  the  dusty  quiver,  he  thought  of 
Africa  ;  of  books  he  had  read.  He  could  imagine 
what  happened  ...  a  narrow  path  between  walls 
of  growth,  a  black  speck  in  the  sky  and  a  man  walking 
.  .  .  quickly  .  .  .  along  the  path.  He  did  not  know 
why,  that  man,  but  he  was  afraid.  He  would  try 
not  to  quicken  his  pace,  would  tell  himself  that  either 
side  of  him  was  only  jungle,  that  the  jungle  was  .  .  . 
untenanted. 

Yet  away  back  in  the  wood  was  the  other  man,  the 
pigmy ;  and  at  the  appointed  moment  a  tiny  brown 
shaft  would  wing  out  of  the  green.  Its  poison  point 
would  graze  hand  .  .  .  cheek  .  .  . 

The  sweat  would  break  out  on  the  man,  his  quick 
walk  turn — in  spite  of  him — into  a  run.  He  would  be 
running,  poor  devil,  from  what  he  carried  in  him  .  .  . 
and  above,  in  the  blue,  the  one  black  spot  would  be 
joined  by  others  ;  and  below,  near  the  place  where, 
at  last,  he  dropped,  the  ants,  the  bone-pickers,  would 
hurry  out  of  their  ant-hills. 

He  would  die  there  and  would  not  know  to  whom  he 
owed  his  death. 

Gale  Corlyon  looked  from  the  slim  brown  arrows  to 
the  heavy  spear.  The  pigmy  had  grasped  one  of  the 


THE   HAUNTING  19 

tenets  of  civilization.  A  man  wanted  to  match  himself 
with  his  opponent ;  but  when  the  odds  were  unequal 
he  strengthened  his  arm  ...  as  best  he  could  .  .  . 


On  the  sideboard  Antiks  had  set  out  a  decanter,  a 
decanter  of  cut  glass. 

When  he  had  fetched  the  wine  from  the  cave  at  the 
end  of  the  cellar,  Gale  would  have  made  all  the  pre- 
parations he  could. 

Taking  the  lanthorn  from  its  nail  in  the  passage,  he 
lighted  the  candle  and  went  down  the  stone  stairs. 
A  grating  revealed  some  boxes  and  barrels  ;  revealed 
also  a  flagged  passage  leading  to  a  low  door.  The 
cellar  was  under  the  garden,  a  narrow  garden  which 
ended  abruptly  at  the  foot  of  the  hill ;  and  the  low 
door,  being  at  the  end  furthest  from  the  house,  seemed 
as  if  it  must  open  upon  some  elfin  palace.  It  led, 
however,  into  the  bluff  which  stood  between  Stowe  on 
its  estuary  and  the  open  sea. 

The  wood  of  this  door  was  black  with  age  and  con- 
sisted of  heavy  timbers  that  had  been  salved  from  a 
wreck.  The  ends  of  these  rose  above  and  sank  below 
the  oblong  aperture.  It  had  no  keyhole.  Mr.  Cor- 
lyon,  when  he  set  it  in  place,  had  preferred  to  pad- 
lock it  with  chain  and  staples  to  the  wall.  Opening 
the  door,  he  let  himself  in  and  fastened  it  again  on  the 
inside. 

He  was  in  a  rock  cavity  of  some  size,  a  cavity 
which  prehistoric  man,  discovering,  had  adapted  to 
his  need.  On  one  side,  near  another  low  door,  was 
a  raised  place,  a  sort  of  giant  bed.  Made  of  stones, 
the  spaces  between  had  been  rilled  with  clay  and 


20  THE  HAUNTING 

the  whole  levelled.  People  sitting  or  lying  on  it 
would  not  suffer  from  the  damp  of  the  floor.  On  this 
primitive  and  ancient  couch  stood  a  chest,  also 
primitive,  for  it  had  been  hollowed  from  a  tree  trunk 
and  bound  with  iron.  As  Mr.  Corlyon  passed  in  quest 
of  the  wine,  he  took  the  sight  of  this  chest  to  his 
heart.  The  wine  lay  in  casks  and  bottles  at  the 
dim  end  of  the  cave-dwelling ;  and  his  business  was 
not  with  the  chest,  but — if  Pascoe  were  further 
delayed,  if  indeed  time  served — he  would  like  to 
waste  it  there. 

A  bottle  of  Bordeaux  from  a  hollow  in  the  rock- 
face  ...  a  flagon  of  rum,  stuff  which  Pascoe  had 
brought  in  the  smack,  that  he  and  his  brother  had 
carried  through  the  fogou  and  stored  in  this  old  hid- 
ing-place. 

He  put  the  bottles  in  readiness  by  the  door  of 
entrance,  then,  crossing  to  the  other,  opened  it  on 
a  low  twisty  passage.  The  lanthorn  showed  this  to 
be  of  the  height  of  a  man,  and  about  three  feet 
wide,  showed  it  running  forward — tunnel-wise — into 
the  bowels  of  the  hill. 

The  fogou — this  passage — lay  like  a  black  snake 
between  Stowe  and  a  sheltered  cove  where  sea  met 
estuary.  As  Mr.  Corlyon  stood  to  listen  he  heard 
the  faint  distant  rumble  of  the  tide,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  familiar  sound  was  dull,  duller  than 
usual. 

Could  anything  have  happened  to  the  passage  ? 
His  mind  considered  the  length  of  uncoiled  serpent 
thrusting  mysteriously  through  the  hill  :  and  he 
remembered  that  in  one  place  the  rock  roof  had 
cracked  a  little,  had  let  through  stones  and  earth. 
Not  much  had  fallen,  surely  not  enough  to  diminish 


THE  HAUNTING  21 

the  sea  thunder.  The  hush  must  be  due  to  the  state 
of  the  tide,  or  to  the  wind  being  off-shore.  It  was, 
however,  a  reminder.  He  must  get  Pascoe  to  help 
him  shore  up  the  bulging  strata.  One  or  two  baulks 
from  the  wood  weathering  in  the  garden,  and  the 
fogou  would  be  good  for  another  thousand  years. 

With  his  mind's  eye  Mr.  Corlyon  regarded  that 
velvet -black  crevice.  The  fogou,  this  work  of  an 
ancient  and  forgotten  folk,  intrigued  him.  It  had 
been  a  means  of  egress  or  escape — a  secret  way. 
When  Stowe  was  a  stockaded  fortress,  its  inhabitants 
had  been  able,  in  extremity,  to  escape  by  means 
of  it,  to  get  away  from  the  oncoming,  irresistible  foe. 
The  chieftains  had  handed  the  secret  from  father 
to  son,  and  now  it  was  his.  The  secrets  of  his  fellow 
citizens  were  known  to  him  and  them,  but  this  secret 
of  the  fogou  was.  his  unshared. 

There  was,  of  course,  Pascoe  ;  but  Pascoe  was 
his  brother  ...  no  one  else  in  the  town  of  Stowe, 
in  the  duchy,  in  England,  in  the  world,  knew  of  the 
fogou  ;  and,  after  all,  a  brother  was  your  own  flesh 
and  blood. 

He  was  the  cleverest  man  in  Stowe,  and  he  held 
the  old  secret  of  the  rulers.  He  wondered  whether, 
perhaps,  he  were  descended  from  them,  whether 
his  fine-sounding  name  .  .  .  Corlyon  .  .  .  had  some 
tribal  meaning.  He  wished  he  knew. 

Turning  back  into  the  cave,  he  went  over  to  the 
giant  bed  of  welded  stones  and  clay.  The  chest 
that  stood  on  it  was,  by  comparison,  a  thing  of 
yesterday,  and  yet  the  tree  from  which  it  had  been 
cut  had  done  its  leafing  centuries  ago. 

Mr.  Corlyon,  unfastening  the  two  locks,  raised  the 
lid,  but  the  interior  thus  revealed  showed,  at  first, 


22  THE  HAUNTING 

entirely  commonplace.  A  piece  of  holland  had  been 
folded  to  fit  the  oblong.  It  was  thick,  a  piece  some 
yards  long.  Lifting  it  out,  he  laid  it  before  him  on 
the  dry  ground. 

Beneath  it,  in  two  rows,  were  a  number  of  pig- 
skin bags,  the  mouths  of  which  were  fastened  with 
leathern  thongs.  Gale,  on  his  hunkers  by  the  chest, 
touched  each  with  a  slim  finger,  counting.  The 
number  was  correct.  So  many  fat-sided  bags,  so 
many  waiting  to  be  filled.  He  picked  up  an  empty 
bag,  laid  it  by.  The  money  Pascoe  received  for  the 
emeralds  should  be  dropped,  coin  by  coin,  into  that 
happy  bag  ;  it  should  no  longer  suffer  among  its 
fellows  the  reproach  of  emptiness.  Pascoe  was 
coming  home,  and  Pascoe  would  bring  money,  money 
that  should  be  added  to  this  store  his  brother  kept 
hidden  in  the  depths  of  his  dwelling.  He  lifted  a 
full  bag,  unfastened  the  thong,  poured  the  sovereigns 
on  to  the  holland. 

His  business  brought  enough  for  his  comfort,  and 
he  had  not  tried  to  develop  it.  What  occupied 
his  mind  was  the  finger-in-every-pie  work  which 
brought  no  return,  no  monetary  return  ;  but  being 
a  good  citizen  he  had  to  take  thought  for  his  old  age, 
also  for  that  of  Pascoe. 

He  had  told  Pascoe  what  to  buy  and  where  to  sell, 
had  received  from  him  the  proceeds  of  these  deals, 
had  stored  them  in  the  pig-skin  bags,  and  the  bags 
in  the  shaped  iron-bound  trunk. 

His  savings. 

A  voice  called  to  him  from  the  top  of  the  cellar 
stairs,  "  Maister  !  Maister  !  " 

He  shovelled  the  gold  into  its  bag,  fitted  the  bag 
into  its  place,  the  holland  overall,  and  locked  the  chest. 


[THE  HAUNTING  23 

"  Maister,  your  brother  be  just  corned.  He'm 
ridin'  down  the  street." 

Pascoe,  the  young  brother  who  went  out  empty 
and  came  back  full,  whose  every  voyage  added  a 
fat  sum  to  the  provision  Mr.  Corlyon  was  making, 
Pascoe  was  come. 

Snatching  up  lanthorn  and  wine,  Mr.  Corlyon 
fastened  behind  him  the  door  of  the  cave,  and  ran 
up  the  stair. 


CHAPTER  II 


ANTIKS  HELLYAR  had  lifted  the  cloth  from  the  table, 
had  washed  the  dishes,  and  gone  home  to  her  children. 
The  men,  desire  of  meat  put  from  them,  were  smoking 
and  talking.  They  lay  back  in  deep  chairs  east  and 
west  of  the  hearth,  and  between  them  on  the  table 
the  many  facets  of  a  cut-glass  bottle  sparkled  in  the 
radiance  of  lamp  and  firelight. 

On  the  lamp  was  a  green  shade.  Save  for  a  little 
moon  of  light  above  the  chimney,  the  upper  part  of 
the  room  was  in  darkness,  but  from  the  edges  of  the 
shade  brightness  flowed  over  table  and  floor,  over 
Pascoe's  short  stuggy  body  and  bronzed  face,  over 
the  shining  blackness  of  Mr.  Corlyon's  boots. 

"  I  was  looking  for  you  quite  an  hour  before  you 
came." 

"  The  rain  !  "  and  Pascoe  reached  for  the  square 
bottle. 

"  You — you  stopped  somewhere  ?  "  Not  till  Pascoe 
affirmed  it  could  he  believe  what  he  already  knew. 

"  At  Treveglos." 

A  farm  some  way  out  of  the  town,  a  farm  at  least 
two  miles  from  the  baby-linen  shop.  "  You  did  not 
see  anything  of  the  Liddicoats  as  you  came 
along  ?  " 

Pascoe  measured  himself  a  tot  of  rum,  and  his 
brother  noticed  that  the  tot  was  ample.  Of  course, 

24 


THE  HAUNTING  25 

the  lad  had  had  a  long  ride,  and  he  fresh  from 
board-ship  life.  Tired,  no  doubt. 

"  Came  down  Main  Street." 

Main  Street  was  the  midmost  of  the  three  that 
opened  on  the  harbour.  Pascoe,  riding  into  Stowe, 
must,  if  he  came  by  way  of  it,  have  made  a  detour. 

"  Joe  Gregor  had  asked  me  to  order  him  a  case 
of  winter  fruit.  I  thought  I  had  better  tell  him  it 
was  on  the  way." 

His  excuse  would  hold  water.  "  As  you  were  late, 
I  thought  you  must  have  stayed  at  the  Liddicoats  for 
supper  ?  " 

Pascoe  understood  that  old  Gale  was  curious ; 
he  wanted  to  be  indulged  with  the  truth  of  the  matter. 
He  was  like  that,-  a  digger,  and  always  at  it. 
"  Thought  you  would  be  waiting  for  me  .  .  .  ' 

That  ought  to  satisfy  him,  but  no.  "  You  were 
fond  enough  of  dropping  in  there  last  time  you  were 
home." 

Pascoe  nodded.  Why  try  to  keep  things  to  himself  ? 
Gale  must  know,  and  as  well  first  as  last.  "  Lot 
of  water  has  flowed  over  the  wheel  since  then."  He 
smiled  to  himself,  his  mind  shifting  from  adventures 
in  Jamaica  to  his  amusements  when  last  in  Stowe. 
Out  of  that  three-months-old  holiday  a  possibility 
stared  at  him.  "  How  are  they  ?  How  is  Jenifer  ?  " 

The  older  man  passed  his  hand  over  the  pocket 
of  his  coat.  He  could  feel  the  hard  oblong  of  the 
carte-de-visite  he  had  taken  from  his  brother's 
mantelshelf.  He  would  not  acknowledge  he  had  it, 
and  nothing  should  induce  him  to  give  it  back ; 
but  he  noticed  uncomfortably  that  Pascoe's  voice 
was  quick  with  interest. 

"  Jenifer  ?  "     She   had   seemed    to    him    a    little 


26  THE  HAUNTING 

paler  of  late,  less  blooming.  It  made  her  only  the 
more  attractive.  He  would  not  tell  Pascoe  that  ; 
the  fellow  might  find  it  out  for  himself.  Mr.  Corlyon, 
his  impassive  face  a  screen,  said  Jenifer  was  much 
as  usual. 

"  Ah,  then,  that  is  all  right."  Oblivious  of  his  brother 
he  fell  back  into  a  dream.  "  Seemed,"  he  said,  "  as 
if  that  shipwreck  brought  me  luck." 

"  Brought  you  a  broken  leg  and  the  loss  of  all 
you  had." 

Pascoe  glanced  at  his  loose  blue  trousers.  "  It 
brought  more  than  it  took.  Leg  is  as  good  as  ever, 
and  while  I  was  lying  in  hospital  I — well,  I  thought 
things  over  a  bit." 

Mr.  Corlyon  felt  his  heart  sink.  Fool  that  he  had 
been  to  think  even  Pascoe  could  forget  her,  forget 
such  a  maid  as  Jenifer  ?  Sea-eyed,  wheat -haired, 
and  .  .  .  her  lips  !  The  vision  of  her  seemed  to  pass 
— a  brightness — through  the  dull  room. 

He  pulled  himself  up  in  his  chair,  and  the  light, 
cut  off  sharply  by  the  green  shade,  showed  only  the 
steep  hard  collar,  the  dull  black  of  his  clothes.  To 
Pascoe,  on  the  brink  of  confession,  it  was  as  if  he 
were  speaking  to  someone  who  had  suddenly  become 
headless. 

"  It — it  is  about  time  I  settled  down." 

"  You  think  so  ?  " 

The  voice,  the  still  voice  that  came  out  of  the 
shadow  was  disconcerting.  Pascoe  wished  his  brother 
had  not  withdrawn  himself,  become  invisible. 

"  I  mean  it  is  time  I  got  married." 

In  order  to  show  himself  companionable,  Mr. 
Corlyon  had  been  smoking.  The  pipe  was  in  his 
hand,  but  his  arm  remained  stretched  along  the  edge 


THE  HAUNTING  27 

of  the  chair,  and  gradually  the  tobacco  began  to  dull. 

"  Time  ?     But — my  dear  lad,  you  are  only— 

"  Twenty-eight,  last  March  !  " 

"  I  am  forty  odd,"  the  voice  had  changed,  had 
become  charged  with  some  emotion  to  which  Pascoe 
could  not  put  a  name,  "  and  I  ...  have  not 
married." 

"  A  born  old  bachelor  !  I  can  never  think  of  you 
with  a  wife  and  children." 

"  No  ?    And  yet  men  of  my  age " 

"  Oh,  I  know."  Gale  was  not  old,  not  really  old, 
still  ...  he  could  not  hope  for  the  freshness  of 
feeling  that  he,  Pascoe,  had.  The  man  had  gone 
past  that.  "  Fact  is,  old  chap,  I  wish  you  would 
marry.  Don't  like  to  think  of  you  all  alone  here. 
Why  not  look  out  for  somebody  of  your  own  age, 
somebody  who  has  got  a  little  money  ?  A  widow, 
say  ...  " 

"  Like— Mrs.  Liddicoat  ?  " 

Why  should  Gale's  voice  have  an  edge  to  it  ? 
Mrs.  Liddicoat  was  all  right.  "You  might  do 
wrorse." 

"  Or  better.  I  might,  for  instance,  marry  a  woman 
that  I  was  fond  of." 

Linking  his  hands  behind  his  head,  Pascoe 
smiled  into  a  peopled  darkness.  His  brother  was 
incomprehensible,  but  what  did  it  matter  ?  Plump, 
kind  Morwenna  Liddicoat  or  another  .  .  .  the  pale 
emotions  of  middle  age  !  It  was,  anyway,  a  matter 
of  slight  importance.  "  Ah,  if  only  you  knew  what 
it  is  to  want  a  maid  as  I  want  Grizel." 

Mr.  Corlyon  sat  forward,  his  face  showing  in  the 
full  light,  showing  the  astonishment  which  possessed 
him.  "Who?" 


28  THE  HAUNTING 

"  Grizel— Grizel  McVitie.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that 
was  her  name  ?  " 

"  You  told  me  nothing."  The  voice  rang  out 
sharply.  "  I  thought  you  had  come  home  to — to 
marry — to  marry  someone  in  Stowe." 

"  And  of  course  you  would  rather  I  did  ?  "  Gale 
was  naturally  annoyed,  would  be  more  so  when  all 
was  told.  "  Sorry,  old  man,  but  a  chap  can't  marry 
to  oblige  his  brother  ;  and  Grizel  .  .  .  there  is  not  a 
maid  in  Stowe  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to  her." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Corlyon,  "  let  us  have  it  all."  He 
had  taken  a  spill  from  the  mantelshelf,  and  was  busy 
refilling  his  pipe.  Presently,  he  sat  back,  puffing. 
"  Out  with  it,"  he  said,  cheerfully. 

"  The  McVities,"  Pascoe  told  him,  "  were  kind 
to  me  when  I  broke  my  leg.  They  had  a  place  at 
Constant  Springs.  As  soon  as  Ifcwas  able  to  get 
out  of  bed  they  asked  me  there." 

"  Jamaica  people  ?  " 

"  Old  McVitie  went  out  as  a  young  man,  went  out 
from  Scotland.  He  is  a  ship's  broker." 

"  Married  out  there  ?  " 

"  Lord,  no,  married  an  Englishwoman.  Get  this 
into  your  noddle,  Gale,  the  McVities  aren't  dark, 
they  are  as  white  as  you  and  me." 

ii 

Gale  had  taken  it  just  as  Pascoe,  conning  his 
confession  on  the  voyage  home,  had  known  he 
would.  The  one  thing  in  the  world  he  wanted 
was  to  see  Pascoe  happily  married.  With  his  eyes 
full  of  handsome  interest  he  had  shaken  his  brother's 
hand.  A  sweetheart  in  every  port  had  been  Pascoe's 
way,  but  this  was  better. 


THE   HAUNTING  29 

And  the  other,  an  obscure  doubt  laid  to  rest, 
opened  his  heart.  Gale,  being  so  much  older,  had 
always  been  like  a  father.  A  fellow  could  speak  out 
to  him.  Being  only,  after  all,  a  brother,  he  could 
not  go  back  on  you. 

Sitting  at  ease,  smoking  placidly,  even  sipping 
the  hot  rum  and  water  at  his  elbow,  Corlyon  listened. 
He  had  never  felt  more  comfortable,  more  like  a  warm, 
full-fed,  purring  cat.  Pascoe  with  a  wife  !  A  little 
house,  and  in  it  Pascoe's  young  wife,  and  presently 
Pascoe's  children  !  Good  ...  it  could  not  have 
been  better. 

As  the  sailor  talked,  his  words  shuttling  about  the 
figure  of  that  distant  girl,  Corlyon  gradually  became 
aware  of  the  McVities.  They  drifted  in  and  out  of 
the  tale.  A  kindly  shrewd  father,  a  mother  who  kept 
her  eye  on  her  two  daughters,  sons  who  were  away, 
one  a  doctor,  one  ranching  in  Florida.  Alexander 
McVitie  had  made  it  plain  that  he  would  tolerate  no 
"  hole-and-corner  "  love-making.  All  open  and  above- 
board.  Come  forward  with  your  offer,  or  clear  out. 
And  Pascoe  had  lost  his  heart.  "  Nothing  new,  that. 
You've  been  in  love  a  pretty  many  times." 

"  I  mean  it  now."  The  other  women  hadn't 
counted,  this  was  the  one  ...  he  only  wanted  to 
get  back  to  her  .  .  .  couldn't  eat  or  sleep  for  thinking 
of  her.  There  was  a  ship  sailing  on  Monday  .  .  . 

"  On  Monday  ?     Come,  come  !  " 

But  Pascoe  had  made  up  his  mind.  The  emotion 
compelling  him  was  too  strong.  When  a  chap  felt 
like  that,  he  did  not  waste  time.  Gale  could  not 
be  expected  to  understand,  but  he,  Pascoe,  must  go. 

"  And  when  you  are  tied  up  good  and  tight,  you'll 
bring  her  home  ?  "  He  must  find  them  a  house  ; 


30  THE  HAUNTING 

must  have  it  papered  and  painted  in  readiness.  No 
trouble  that,  he  would  enjoy  it. 

Under  his  kindly  planning  was  a  secret  warmth, 
the  hope  of  similar  adventure.  Pascoe  and  his  over- 
seas maiden  ;  but  he,  Gale,  would  be  content  with 
one  who  had  spent  all  her  waking  and  sleeping  hours 
in  little  old  Stowe.  If  only  she  would  have  him, 
and  she  might  .  .  .  now  that  Pascoe  was  out  of  the  way. 

As  in  a  dream  he  saw  the  young  man's  face  change, 
grow  apologetic.  "  Bring  her  home — here  ?  No, 
her  father  would  not  hear  of  it.  He  made  a  point 
of  our  living  out  there." 

"  In  Jamaica  ?  But  you  are  not  going  to,  are 
you  ?  "  What  about  the  secret  trade,  the  articles 
Pascoe  invested  money  in  as  Gale's  agent  ?  What 
about  bags  that  had  still  to  be  filled  ? 

"  Can't  help  myself.  Both  McVitie's  sons  being 
away  he  really  needs  another  man  in  the  business." 

"  But  you — you  wouldn't  know  enough — a  sailor 
like  you." 

"  He  says  my  knowledge  of  shipping  will  be  useful 
to  him." 

"  And  you  really  think  of  settling  in  Jamaica  ?  " 
His  thoughts  were  with  his  hoard.  The  fat  bags 
represented  a  goodish  bit  of  money,  but  he  had  looked 
forward  to  many  more  of  Pascoe 's  laden  home- 
comings. It  seemed  to  him  that  his  brother  was 
acting  shabbily.  Without  warning,  without  even 
seeming  to  realize  what  he  was  about,  he  proposed 
to  put  an  end  to  the  trading  that  brought  him  yearly 
such  a  comfortable  sum.  How  selfish  were  even  the 
best !  A  girl  shyly  lifted  her  blue  eyes,  and  you  might 
whistle  for  your  money.  That  was  Pascoe  all  over 
.  .  .  unstable. 


THE  HAUNTING  31 

But  then,  if  he  had  not  been  happy-go-lucky  he 
would  have  traded  for  himself,  and  he  had  a  wonderful 
eye  for  bargains.  Gale  did  him  justice.  The  lad 
bought  in  a  cheap  market,  and  always  turned  in 
to  him,  Gale,  the  difference.  Yes  ...  all  these 
years.  And  it  was  a  goodly  sum.  If  he  had  chosen 
to  lay  it  out  .  .  .  invest  it  ...  buy  land  .  .  . 

But  there  had  been  no  need.  He  earned  enough 
for  his  bachelor  requirements.  Now,  perhaps  .  .  . 

"  You  see,  Gale,  he  has  offered  me  a  share  in  the 
business." 

The  pebble  rolling  hither  and  thither  for  so  long 
had  found  a  rich  hollow. 

"  He  is  doing  well,"  Pascoe  said.  It's  a  good 
business.  I  should  be  a  fool  if  I  did  not  take  on  the 
job." 

Gale  had  almost  uttered  the  words  behind  his  lips, 
"  And  what  about  me  ?  " 

Had  Pascoe  no  thought  for  anyone  but  himself  ? 
Gale  dwelt  on  the  long  affection  he  had  borne  his 
young  brother  .  .  .  apparently  it  was  no  more  to 
Pascoe  than  ballast.  For  the  sake  of  this  girl  he  would 
jettison  it  without  hesitation. 

"  I  congratulate  you,  but,"  he  must  try  him  a  little 
further,  make  sure,  "  you'll  be  back  here,  now  and 
again  ?  " 

"  Daresay  I  shall,  though  old  McVitie  says,  '  where 
a  man  makes  his  home,  there  he  should  bide.'  He 
has  never  been  back.  But  I  am  different.  Fact  is," 
he  laughed  at  his  fatuousness,  "  I  want  you  to  see 
Grizel ;  and  I  want  to  take  her  around,  show  her 
places,  the  fogou,  and  so  on  ...  the  places  I've 
told  her  about," 

"  The  places  in  some  way  connected  with  you  ?  " 


32  THE  HAUNTING 

"  That's  it.  She'll  be  interested.  She'll  want  to 
see  them."  He  went  on  talking,  and  Gale,  half 
listening,  let  his  eyes  rest  on  the  straight  handsome 
features,  the  moving  lips.  Pascoe  was  entirely 
occupied  with  the  girl  and  his  relation  to  her.  That 
Gale  would  miss  his  home-coming  had  hardly  occurred 
to  him.  It  was  of  no  importance.  He  had  put  it 
on  one  side  and  forgotten  it. 


in 

"  How  did  you  get  hold  of  the  emeralds  ?  " 

"  Ship  was  at  Cartagena  for  cargor  and  I  met  a 
miner  from  up-country,  a  Cornishman,  and  stood 
him  drinks.  He  had  the  stones.  I  don't  know  how 
he  came  by  them,  but  he  needed  to  pass  them  on, 
and  pretty  quick,  too." 

If  Pascoe  was  showing  a  cold  disregard  for  Gale's 
future,  at  least  he  had  done  him  good  service  up  to 
date.  Queer  chap,  Pascoe,  he  put  your  suggestions 
into  practice,  made  money  for  you,  and  thought 
nothing  of  it.  All  in  the  day's  work.  The  adventure 
of  a  bargain  as  good  as  any  other  adventure,  but  no 
better. 

"  You  sold  the  stones  in  Plymouth  ?  " 

Pascoe  saw  he  was  expected  to  render  account, 
and  he  was  willing.  The  tale  of  his  secret  earnings 
had  always  been  poured  into  Gale's  ears,  Gale,  the 
trustworthy  old  buffer  who  took  care  of  the  money. 
"  Malet  gave  me  fifty  for  the  two  biggest.  They 
were  worth  more,  but  he  wouldn't  part." 

"  And  the  others  ?  " 

"  Twenty  for  the  others,  seventy  in  all." 

"  That's  not  so  bad." 


THE  HAUNTING  33 

"  I  gave  ten  for  them  !  "  He  chuckled  over  the 
easy  money,  thought  of  the  one  stone  he  had  kept 
back,  the  stone  which  was  to  be  set  in  a  gold  band  for 
Grizel.  Seventy  pounds  and  a  fine  ring  ...  all 
that  for  a  tenner  .  .  .  not  so  dusty  ! 

Gale  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  window. 
The  curtains  hung  brown  and  straight  across  the 
aperture.  The  brothers  were  as  safe  from  prying 
eyes  as  if  they  had  been  in  the  Cave. 

"  Let's  see  the  colour  of  it." 

That,  too,  Pascoe  would  give.  With  an  effort— 
because  of  its  packed  rotundity — he  pulled  a  bag 
out  of  his  trouser  pocket.  "  Seventy  pounds,"  he 
gloated,  and,  untying  the  neck  of  the  canvas  bag, 
poured  them  on  to  the  black  tray. 

They  slid  over  each  other  with  a  sweet  metallic 
sound,  they  twinkled  in  the  yellow  light  of  the  lamp. 
Gale,  stretching  a  lean  finger,  would  have  stirred 
them,  but  ...  he  did  not  realize  how  .  .  .  Pascoe 
was  before  him. 

"  Seventy  pounds  that  I  have  earned,"  he  said. 


IV 

Gale  was  thankful  for  the  long  training  in  discretion 
which  listening  to  other  people's  private  affairs  had 
given  him.  At  that  amazing  utterance  of  Pascoe's 
he  had  felt  something  fall  away  inside,  but  he  had 
not  spoken.  He  had  sat,  tensely  silent,  apprehension 
growing  apace  ;  but,  growing  behind  the  still  mask 
of  his  face,  growing  invisibly. 

"  Seventy  pounds  that  I  have  earned  !  " 
The    necessity    was    on    Gale    for    some    sort    of 
movement,  some  outlet  for  the  rush  of  emotion.    He 
c 


34  THE  HAUNTING 

got  up,  a  tall  thin  man  who  looked  his  age.  "  The 
fire  wants  mending.  I'll  fetch  a  motte." 

In  the  basket  under  the  kitchen  window  were  a 
couple  of  big  tree  roots — mottes.  Gale  took  the 
hatchet,  and  carrying  the  bigger  piece  into  the  yard, 
shaped  and  trimmed  it.  The  passion  of  him  went 
into  the  blows.  He  came  back  to  the  brown  sitting- 
room  his  usual  pale  but  debonair  self.  He  was  ready 
now  for  this  new  Pascoe. 

His  glance,  as  he  entered,  went  to  the  tray ;  but 
the  shining  heap  had  vanished. 

Pascoe  must  have  put  the  gold  back  into  his  pocket. 


"  Come,"  Gale  began  roughly,  then  pulled  up  short. 
With  this  new  Pascoe  he  must  walk  warily.  "  I  mean 
.  .  .  move  aside,  the  motte  is  heavy." 

He  thrust  the  root  deep  into  the  hot  smouldering 
turf,  thrust  so  fiercely  that  it  was  as  if  he  would  have 
pushed  it  through  the  fire-basket.  That  money  .  .  . 
a  strange  thing  for  Pascoe  to  have  done  .  .  .  what 
did  he  mean  by  it  ? 

If  he  were  short  of  cash,  wanted  some  to  buy  his 
girl  a  present,  wanted  some  for  furnishing,  he  had  only 
to  ask  for  it.  Gale  had  always,  well  .  .  .  not  given 
him  money  to  waste  .  .  .  but  been  generous.  If  he 
were  treated  properly,  no  one  was  more  open-handed. 

From  behind  him,  still  busy  with  the  fire,  came 
Pascoe's  fresh-air  voice.  "  We  must  settle  up,  I 
think." 

"  Settle  up  ?  "  What  was  there  to  "  settle  up  "  ? 
The  old  brown  house  on  quay-side  had  been  their 
mutual  home,  the  expenses  of  its  upkeep  Gale's  affair. 


THE  HAUNTING  35 

He  had  never  grumbled  at  the  cost,  had  been  glad  to 
think  Pascoe  should  have  a  home  to  which  he  could 
return. 

Pascoe  might  have  offered,  if  not  to  share  expenses, 
at  least  to  pay  a  little,  but  he  had  not.  Where  money 
was  concerned,  he  had  always  been  a  bit  careless. 
Gale  had  had  to  think  for  them  both. 

If  he  had  not,  they  might  have  drifted  into  Poverty 
Street.  He  turned  his  back  on  the  fire.  From  his 
lean  height  he  looked  down,  questioningly,  on  his 
brother.  "  Settle  up  ?  " 

"  You  know,  father  left  this  house  between  us," 
Pascoe  said.  "  We'll  get  it  valued,  and  you  can  buy 
me  out,  or  we'll  sell  it." 

The  house — so  solid,  so  long  Gale's  house — thinned 
suddenly  to  paper.  Though  built  on  "hard  country," 
it  heaved  under  his  feet.  The  house  in  which  he  had 
been  born,  in  which  he  had  spent  the  forty  odd 
years  of  his  life,  the  house  which,  since  the  death 
of  his  father,  he  had  looked  on  as  indisputably 
his  .  .  . 

Pascoe  had  put  in  a  claim  :  Pascoe,  who,  for  ten 
years,  had  paid  nothing 

'  You've  lived  in  it  rent  free,"  Pascoe  Was  saying. 
"  Of  course,  that  is  no  matter,  you  were  welcome." 

Rent  free  ?  Was  that  how  he  had  looked  at  it  ? 
The  revelation  of  his  mind  was  bewildering.  Had 
Gale  been  mistaken  ?  Was  Pascoe  not  the  happy-go- 
lucky  sailor,  indifferent  to  money,  keen  only  on 
adventure  ?  Was  he  not  the  affectionate  lad  .  .  . 

But  he  had  had  proof  already  that  Pascoe  cared 
for  him,  Gale,  not  so  much  as  a  snap  of  the  fingers. 
Grizel  filled  his  heart.  He  could  bid  farewell  to  the 
brother  who  had  fathered  him,  who  had  been  devoted 


36  THE  HAUNTING 

to  him,  without  so  much  as  a  backward  look.  He 
was,  indeed,  only  impatient  to  be  gone. 

A  bitter  awakening  .  .  .  but  Gale  must  not  think 
of  that  now.  A  situation  had  arisen  with  which  he 
must  deal.  That  first.  Pascoe,  no  longer  the  easy, 
semi-dependent  young  brother,  was  demanding  his 
.  .  .  rights.  Yes,  the  unconscionable  dog,  that  no 
doubt  was  how  he  looked  on  it.  The  letter  of  the  law 
.  .  .  but  law  was  not  justice  .  .  and  law  between 
brothers  ... 

Why,  law  was  not  even  common  sense  !  It  would 
have  been  wiser  to  have  left  things  as  they  were, 
to  have  kept  the  old  house  on  quay-side  as  a  refuge 
to  which  Pascoe  could  always  come.  You  couldn't 
tell  .  .  .  life  was  uncertain  ...  he  might  be  back, 
wife  and  all,  within  a  twelvemonth.  This  talk  of 
selling  .  .  . 

That  Pascoe  could  contemplate  It  for  a  moment. 
The  house  was — home. 

Mr.  Corlyon  could  not  imagine  himself  dislodged, 
a  snail  from  whom  its  shell  had  been  taken.  Why,  he 
would  do  extra  work,  do  without  comfort,  live  on 
bread  and  tea  rather  than  turn  out.  Alarming,  this 
talk.  Not  that  it  meant  anything,  for  he  would,  of 
course,  have  the  house  valued,  find  the  money  to 
buy  Pascoe  out ;  but  the  suggestion  had  opened  a 
vista  of  possibilities. 

"  And,"  pursued  the  cheery  voice,  "  and  there's  the 
money." 

Gale  found  his  lips  dry.    The  money  ?    What  money  ? 

"  I  should  think  by  now  it  will  be  a  brave  sum." 

"  But  father  did  not  leave  any  money."  A  mistake 
somewhere.  Pascoe  could  not  mean,  impossible  that 
he  should  mean  .  .  . 


THE  HAUNTING  37 

"  I  know  .  .  .  poor  old  father ;   if  he  had  not  been 
so  fond  of  his  glass,  he  would  have  left  us  more  than 
the  house." 
'Us! 

"  No: — I  mean  the  money  I  have  made  ;  the  money 
I  gave  you  to  take  care  of  for  me."  He  smiled  at  his 
brother.  "  I  knew  it  would  be  safe  in  your  hands. 
Get  milk  out  of  a  cheese,  easier  than  money  out  of 
you.  How  much  is  it  ?  I'll  be  bound  you  know." 

In  the  turmoil  of  his  wrath  and  excitement,  Gale 
clung  to  one  thought.  He  must  be  wary.  He  must 
not  show  what  he  was  feeling.  He  must  not  give 
anything  away,  not  information,  not  himself.  This 
unheard  of,  egregious,  abominable  demand  .  .  . 

"  I  don't,  though." 

Was  the  effort  that  he  was  making  palpable  ?  He 
glanced  at  Pascoe,  at  the  smiling  happiness  of  him, 
and  felt  he  could  no  longer  endure  the  sight.  Turning, 
he  pushed  his  chair  a  little  back,  and  sat  down.  He 
wanted  time  ...  a  few  moments'  grace  .  .  .  self- 
control  was  sometimes  so  very  difficult  to  compass. 
But  he  mustn't  speak.  It  was  imperative  that  he 
should  keep  the  words  back. 

"  Let's  have  a  squint  at  it,  then.  Some  fun  counting 
it  up." 

Gale  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  his  face  once  more  a 
paleness  in  the  green  dusk  of  the  lampshade.  "  I 
would  not  bother  about  it  to-night.  To-morrow  will 
be  soon  enough." 

"  If  you  don't  want  to  stir  out  of  this,  give  me  the 
key  and  I'll  go  get  it." 

Go  get  it  ...  down  the  cellar  stairs,  into  the  cave 
.  .  .  Gale's  sanctuary  !  Pascoe  put  out  a  hand,  but 
Gale,  sitting  back  in  the  shadow,  did  not  move. 


38  THE  HAUNTING 

How  much  longer  would  he  be  able  to  sit  there  .  .  . 
silent  .  .  .  hiding  his  bitterness.  And  it  was  more 
than  bitterness.  Something  had  broken  .  .  . 

"  What's  the  hurry  to-night  ?  Business  in  business 
hours.  You  have  trusted  me  all  these  years,"  surely 
one  night  more  isn't  going  to  break  the  square  ?  " 

Pascoe  sat  there,  contemplative.  Of  course,  just 
as  Gale  liked,  but  he  had  been  thinking  of  it  during 
the  voyage  home,  wondering  how  much  he  had. 
"  You  see — I  have  to  buy  my  partnership  in  McVitie's 
business." 

Gale's  groping  mind  had  found  the  solution  to  the 
problem.  Pascoe  would  not  get  his  wife  unless  he 
stood  in  with  the  girl's  father.  An  obedient  .  .  . 
obedient  ?  Perhaps  even,  she  was  the  scheming 
daughter  of  this  canny  Scot.  McVitie  wanted  money, 
and  Pascoe  was  to  supply  it.  Not  having  any  of  his 
own,  he  had  bethought  him  of  Gale's  money.  An 
unscrupulous  lot,  and  Pascoe  as  bad  as  the  others. 
He  would  never  have  thought  it  of  his  brother  .  .  . 
still,  when  a  woman  stood  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
beckoning  .  .  . 

How  did  Pascoe  know  that  McVitie's  business  was 
flourishing  ?  The  fact  was,  he  did  not  know.  He  had 
accepted  McVitie's  statements,  and  McVitie,  of  course, 
had  put  his  best  foot  foremost.  Without  inquiry, 
Pascoe  was  going  to  hand  over  Gale's  money  .  .  . 

From  start  to  finish  the  trading  had  been  Gale's 
idea,  carried  on  under  his  direction,  and  the  proceeds 
handed  over.  He  thought  of  the  double  row  of  pigskin 
bags  in  the  chest.  His  savings,  ten  years  of  careful- 
ness, of  slowly  mounting  addition,  and  now,  a  hand 
stretched  towards  it,  a  greedy  acquisitive  hand. 

If  only  he  could  have  struck  it  down. 


THE  HAUNTING  89 

He  could  not  trust  himself  much  longer — this 
outrageous  claim  ! 

He  would  not  give  up  the  money  ...  his  money 
.  .  .  that,  at  least,  was  certain.  But  how  would  he 
fend  off  those  eager  fingers  ?  He  must  think,  must 
have  time. 

The  night  lay  black  about  him,  and  he  felt  thankful 
for  the  long  hours.  Before  the  grey  of  morning  he 
would  know  what  .  .  .  not  what  he  would  do  ...  no 
indeed,  but  how  he  should  set  about  it. 

An  unconscionable,  a  wicked  demand  .  .  .  yes,  and 
a  mercenary  pair.  Pascoe  was  playing  into  their 
hands.  The  fool  .  .  . 

"  I  think,"  Gale  said,  and  he  rose  with  a  certain 
fierce  briskness,  "  I  think  we'll  go  to  bed." 

The  other  laughed  apologetically,  as  he  followed. 
"  I  haven't  half  told  you  about  Grizel,  still — there  is 
always  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  III 


"  Good  night !  " 

On  the  threshold  of  his  room  Gale  Corlyon  yawned 
as  if  he  were  tired.  Hitherto,  bolting  the  front  door 
and  putting  up  the  chain,  he  had  felt  he  was  shutting 
himself  and  Pascoe  in,  that  they  two  were  united 
against  a  world  of  marauders.  Now,  suddenly, 
horribly,  the  situation  had  changed.  Pascoe,  with 
whom  he  had  thought  of  himself  as  standing  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  had  become  hostile. 

Gale  was  conscious  of  a  desire  to  be  alone,  the  only 
wakeful  creature  in  the  dark  house.  He  wanted  to  be 
surrounded  by  thickness  on  thickness  of  dead  opaque 
night  ...  he  wanted  to  bar  out  Pascoe. 

It  had  come,  all  of  a  moment,  to  that.  He  wanted, 
not  to  shut  Pascoe  in,  but  out. 

This  was  not  the  brother  whom  a  few  hours  earlier 
he  had  welcomed  with  such  a  show  of  kindly  prepara- 
tion ;  and  the  only  way  to  be  rid  of  him — of  this 
intruder — was  to  feign  a  drowsiness  he  did  not  feel. 

If  the  fellow  thought  he,  Gale,  had  taken  his  demand 
as  a  matter  of  course,  had  not  been  bothered  by  it, 
had,  in  fact,  gone  off  casually  to  bed,  he  also  would 
sleep  ;  and,  once  asleep,  the  irritation  of  his  presence 
would  be,  in  part,  removed.  He  would  become,  if 
not  a  nothingness,  at  least  only  a  tooth  which,  though 
it  held  possibilities,  did  not  ache. 

4o 


THE   HAUNTING  41 

Gale  could  wait.  It  seemed  indeed  as  if  he  must, 
as  if  his  brain  were  numb,  had  been  stupefied ;  as  if 
with  that  flame  of  alien  consciousness  burning  so 
close  to  him,  he  could  not  think.  He  must — that 
was  it — he  must  have  the  house  to  himself. 

His  house,  his  poor  house,  his  house  on  which  a 
sacrilegious  finger  had  been  laid. 

The  house  which,  if  Pascoe  had  not  been  saved  from 
the  wreck,  would  have  been  legally  his. 

He  had  so  nearly,  so  very  nearly,  not  come  back. 

Gale  visualized  that  long  swim,  those  hours  in  the 
water.  At  the  moment  of  failing  endurance,  a  big 
wave  had  rolled  Pascoe  up  the  beach,  left  him  there. 
It  might  so  easily  have  rolled  him  under. 

And  if  he  had  been  drowned  .  .  . 

If— if !     Ay— but  "if"  is  a  crooked  letter. 

Pascoe  had  come  back  to  show  Gale  the  sort  of 
man  he  was,  to  claim  half  of  the  house  on  Quayside, 
and  all  the  money. 

He  would  strip  his  brother,  and  then  bid  him  good- 
bye. "  A  man  should  bide  where  he  made  his 
home." 

Gale,  holding  his  head  in  his  hands,  in  his  long 
nervous  hands,  which -were  so  capable,  groaned  to 
himself,  groaned  softly  lest  Pascoe  should  hear. 

He  had  thought  to  know  his  brother  as  he  knew 
the  little  limewashed  rooms  of  the  house.  Light, 
easy,  ay — but  loyal. 

Across  the  pale,  candle-lit  room  his  eyes  sought 
an  old  and  fading  photo  that  hung  on  the  wall,  the 
photo  of  Pascoe  that  he  had  had  taken  on  his  first 
voyage.  He  had  had  that  photo — for  how  many 
years  ?  It  must  be  over  a  dozen. 

He  drew  a  long  breath.    More  than  a  dozen  years, 


42  THE  HAUNTING 

and  during  that  time  he  had  set  the  clock  of  life  by 
his  brother's  comings  and  goings. 

And  Pascoe  had  seemed  .  .  . 

That  was  it — seemed  ;  good  Lord,  yes,  he  had  only 
seemed.  His  loyalty,  his  affection  had  been  no  more 
a  part  of  him  than  his  clothes. 

The  real  Pascoe  .  .  .  Gale  could  not  see  him  clearly, 
could  not  see  all  of  him,  but  what  he  saw  .  .  . 

The  world  seemed  to  Gale  bottomless  as  Dozmare 
Pool,  a  black  hollow  through  which  one  sank  and 
sank.  He  had  lost  something,  but  it  was  not  Pascoe. 

The  Pascoe  to  whom  he  had  been  so  much  attached 
had  never  existed.  In  his  place  stood  a  stranger,  a 
stranger  who,  under  a  breezy  manner,  had  hidden 
fierce  and  predatory  thoughts,  who  had  regarded 
Gale,  not  as  flesh  of  his  flesh,  but  as  an  "  old  buffer  " 
away  back  in  Stowe,  who  might  be  plundered. 

It  hurt  ...  it  was  as  if  splintered  glass  were  running 
into  his  flesh,  were  letting  out  warmth  and  red  blood 
and  some  sort  of  stored  emotion. 

On  the  cane  chair  by  his  narrow  iron  bed,  his  bed 
of  a  bachelor,  he  sat  very  still,  his  heart  crying  out 
in  him. 

He  wanted  the  old  illusion,  the  old  happy  belief. 

He  wanted,  not  this  new  Pascoe  with  the  hard 
smiling  eyes,  but  the  young  brother  who  had  come 
to  him  when  in  trouble,  who  had  borrowed  his  money, 
and  been  at  home  under  his  roof. 

The  years  of  comradeship,  so  many  and  now  that 
he  was  looking  back,  so  short  ! 

From  the  room  across  the  landing  came  sounds  of 
movement,  the  sudden  dipping  creak  of  a  bed.  Pascoe, 
his  demand  made,  and  his  affairs  in  order,  was  settling 
to  happy  dreams  of  his  sweetheart,  would  dream, 


THE  HAUNTING  48 

perhaps,  of  the  money  he  was  filching  from  Gale, 
the  money  that  was  her  price. 

Very  soon  now  he  would  be  asleep. 

And  then  Gale  might  go,  through  the  silent  house, 
down  and  down. 

He  needed  to  see  the  treasure  at  which  Pascoe  had 
snatched,  to  touch  it,  to  comfort  himself  with  it. 

It  was  all  he  had. 

Why,  when  Pascoe  made  that  outrageous  demand, 
had  Gale  not  said  that  he  had  speculated  with  the 
money,  lost  it  ? 

He  had,  of  course,  been  taken  by  surprise  ;  but  he 
was  not  a  liar.  The  money  was  his,  and  he  would 
fight  for  it.  Fight,  but  not  deny  the  existence  of  it. 

Going  quietly  to  the  door,  he  pulled  it  open. 


ii 

From  Pascoe's  room  came  the  sound,  rhythmic  and 
slow,  of  deeply  drawn  breath.  He  was  asleep,  asleep 
with  his  door  left  casually  ajar.  Gale,  candle  in  hand, 
saw  the  oblong  and  in  that  pocket  of  blackness,  the 
dim  outlines  of  furniture.  For  the  time  being  his 
enemy  was,  as  it  were,  buried.  Sleep  had  covered 
Pascoe,  rendered  him  deaf  and  blind  and  the  house 
was  once  more  Gale's.  He  went  down  the  bedroom 
stairs,  the  cellar  stairs.  At  the  other  end  of  the  flagged 
path,  the  low  black  door  scowled  from  the  hill-side. 
Letting  himself  in,  he  did  not  close  it  behind  him. 
He  had  the  feeling  that  he  must  not  be  shut  away  from 
the  house,  that  he  must  be  able  to  hear  what  went  on 
in  it. 

Once  inside  the  cave  he  went  directly  to  the  great 
bed  of  clay-fixed  stones.  The  old  chest,  banded  with 


44  THE  HAUNTING 

rusty  iron,  wore  for  him  a  friendly  aspect.  Here,  at 
least,  was  something  that  would  not  change,  not  in  a 
lifetime,  not  in  many.  Its  seeming  was  the  real  thing. 
Grey  wood  from  the  outside  to  the  in,  grey  wood  that 
had  been  hollowed  to  hold  what  man  wished  to  store. 

He  threw  back  the  lid,  spread  out  the  holland, 
emptied  on  to  it  the  pigskin  bags.  His  fingers  were 
trembling  as  he  untied  them.  Ten  bags  .  .  .  the 
savings  of  ten  years.  With  the  contents  of  those  bags 
he  might  have  hired  himself  servants,  taken  a  larger 
house,  married  a  wife ;  but  he  had  been  content  to 
slip  coin  after  coin  into  the  little  greedy  mouths  ;  to 
save  until  bag  after  bag  was  full,  over-full,  until  he 
might  thong  it  about  and  start  on  the  next. 

What  were  figures  on  paper  to  addition  in  the  con- 
crete, to  that  adding  of  sovereign  to  sovereign  ?  No 
emotion  so  satisfying. 

The  flame  of  the  candle  burnt  steadily  in  the  still 
air  of  the  cave :  its  light  fell  on  the  pyramid  of  shining 
coins. 

Gale  felt  his  heart  swell,  felt  that  his  chest  was  not 
big  enough  to  contain  it,  that  it  must  choke  him. 

Here  was  substance  which  would  not  change  into 
fairy  gold  .  .  .  into  withered  leaves. 

Affection  ?     No,  only  this  was  real. 

He  stretched  his  arms,  curving  them  round  the 
glittering  heap.  He  wanted  to  lay  his  cheek  on  the 
cold  smoothness  of  the  metal.  The  money  was  his 
.  .  .  his  .  .  . 

Within  him  something  hard  began  to  push,  to  grow. 

in 

"  Hullo,  Gale  !  "  cried  a  voice  from  the  doorway. 
"  So  this  is  where  you  are  ?  " 


THE  HAUNTING  45 

Pascoe,  dark  hair  in  a  tousle,  but  no  hint  of  sleep  in 
his  eyes,  stepped  up  to  the  giant  bed.  He  was  looking, 
not  at  Gale,  but  at  the  money  and  he  was  smiling. 

What  did  it  mean  ?  Pascoe's  door  had  been  ajar 
...  on  purpose  ?  He,  too,  had  been  waiting  ? 

"  After  all,"  Pascoe  said,  "  you  wanted  to  know. 
Come  on,  then,  we'll  count  it." 

He  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  raised  place, 
sat  with  his  back  to  Gale  ;  and  Gale,  watching  him, 
thought  how  singularly  unprotected  people  were  who 
had  their  backs  to  you.  No  scaly  armour,  not  even 
a  thick  hide. 

To  take  what  a  man  had,  to  sit  as  a  matter  of  course 
with  your  back  to  him,  showed  the  esteem  in  which 
you  held  him  .  .  .  the  lack  of  esteem.  A  fangless 
lion  whose  claws  had  been  cut ;  an  old  cat  by  the 
hearth. 

The  candle -flame  had  swooned  in  the  breeze  of 
Pascoe's  sudden  entry.  It  climbed  again,  a  yellow 
flame  about  a  thick  inordinately  long  wick  and  the 
smoke  rippled  blackly  to  the  rock  roof.  Gale,  staring 
at  Pascoe's  back,  at  his  head  bent  over  the  coins,  at 
the  busy  movement  of  his  hands,  wondered  how  he 
could  ever  have  thought  the  fellow  good-looking. 
Too  wide  and  thick  for  his  height,  why,  he  was  almost 
squat  ;  and  his  hands  .  .  .  the  dishonest  thumb  .  .  . 


IV 

Having  separated  the  sovereigns  from  the  half- 
sovereigns,  Pascoe  was  heaping  the  former  in  tens,  the 
latter  in  twenties  ;  and  behind  him  the  older  man 
waited. 

"  My  word,  old  fellow,"  Pascoe  said  at  last  and, 


46  THE  HAUNTING 

leaning  back,  looked  up  with  the  old  affectionate 
glance.  "  If  it  had  not  been  for  you  I  should  not  have 
saved  half  as  much." 

Gale  let  out  a  careful  driblet  of  words.  "  You 
would  not." 

"  You  have  looked  after  my  interests  mighty  well. 
Could  not  have  done  better  if  they  had  been  your  own." 

The  breezy  manner,  genial,  hearty,  was  that  with 
which  he  was  familiar — but  Gale  was  wondering  how 
he  had  been  taken  in  by  it.  The  veneer  of  walnut 
on  plain  wood.  .  .  . 

"  I  put  the  money  by.  Yes,  dragged  in  the  chest 
and  had  the  bags  made  and  filled  them.  I  filled  them 
till  they  brimmed.  Every  pound  they  hold,  I  saved." 

"  You  did."  Pascoe  smiled  an  acknowledgment. 
The  little  rouleaux,  the  tens  and  twenties,  would  give 
him  his  wife  and  a  home  worthy  of  her.  "  Mean  a 
lot  to  me,  these  do.  Never  thought  I  should  be  as 
glad  of  them  as  I  am." 

*'  Pascoe — "  Gale  caught  at  the  blurted  word,  tried 
to  dam  the  black  tide,  failed.  "  If  you  didn't  think 
to  marry  and  the  maid's  father  hadn't  bought  you, 
never  a  word  should  I  have  heard  about  this  money." 
Sweeping  his  arm  out  towards  the  gold  he  spoke  with 
more  deliberation.  "  You  spent  what  you  earned, 
you  would  have  spent  this.  It  isn't  yours  and  until 
it  suited  your  book  you  never  thought  of  it  as  yours." 

"  Not  mine  ?  "  Pascoe  said,  a  little  breathlessly. 
He  was  ready  for  old  Gale.  The  chap  was  fond  of 
money,  but  he  had  always  been  straight -dealing. 
When  he  came  to  think  it  over,  he  would  see  he  had 
not  any  right  to  this.  "  Oh  yes,  'tis  mine  right  enough. 
I  earned  it." 

"  You  ?     You  bought  where  I  told  you  to,  sold  as 


THE  HAUNTING  47 

I  bade  you  and  brought  me  the  proceeds.  You  were 
my  agent." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  I  kept  account  of  every  halfpenny 
I  gave  you,  the  dates  and  all.  Believe  I  got  it  on 
me,"  he  searched  his  pockets.  "  No,  must  have  left 
it  with  McVitie." 

Gale  was  taken  aback.  "  You  kept  an  account, 
you  gave  that  account  to  McVitie  ?  " 

A  fresh  revelation  of  under-currents.  Pascoe, 
handing  over  sum  after  sum,  had  not  commented  on 
them,  yet  had  kept  an  account ;  and  the  paper  of 
figures  had  been  left  behind — with  McVitie — carefully. 
Pascoe  had  not  needed  to  count  the  coins  in  the  box,  he 
had  known  as  well  as  Gale  what  the  sum  total  should  be. 

"  Why,  yes.  No  harm  in  that,  was  there  ?  It  was 
as  well  for  the  man  to  know  how  much  I  could  put 
into  the  business.  It  would  have  been  more  if  you 
had  invested  it,  or  put  it  on  deposit  at  the  bank." 

There  it  was,  just  as  it  had  been  handed  over,  a 
lump  of  dead  metal ;  and  what  was  the  use  to  anyone 
of  bottled  money  ?  He  had  a  sense  of  injury. 

"  My  God  !  "  Gale  said. 

"  Don't  look  at  me  like  that."  Sitting  between  his 
brother  and  the  money,  he  seemed  small  and  gnome- 
like.  The  candle  which  was  behind  him  was  reflected 
in  Gale's  eyes,  twin  flames  in  eyes  as  darkly  bright  as 
agates.  Pascoe  felt  a  momentary  doubt.  Old  Gale 
looked  .  .  . 

He  could  not  put  a  name  to  it  but  ancestors  of  his 
had  been  ill-wished  by  men  who  had  looked  at  them, 
who  had  looked  like  that. 

"  Come  !  "  said  he,  with  propitiatory  glance  and 
smile.  "  Money's  mine  and  I've  got  to  have  it,  but 
no  need  for  us  to  part  bad  friends." 


48  THE  HAUNTING 

"  I'm  the  wrong  man  to  rob,"  Gale  answered  him. 

Pascoe,  sweeping  the  gold  together,  made  a  bag  of 
the  holland.  Absurd,  of  course,  but  he  felt  queer 
.  .  .  daunted.  He  must  get  back  to  his  room,  to  the 
security  of  those  four  walls. 

A  good  thing — as  he  had  the  money — to  turn  the 
key  in  his  door.  With  the  door  locked  a  man  might 
sleep  sound. 

Money  or  no  money,  a  good  thing  to  have  a  stout 
and  locked  door  between  you  and  ... 

And  what  ? 


CHAPTER  IV 

JENIFER 


"  WHAT,  Jenifer  ?     All  by  yourself  ?  " 

Gale  Corlyon  coming  through  the  shop  had  noted 
Mrs.  Liddicoat's  absence.  Nor  was  she  in  the  half- 
parlour,  half-kitchen,  at  the  back.  Only  Jenifer, 
blossoming  golden  and  rose-red  in  the  obscurity. 

"  Mammy's  overstairs."  The  girl  was  sitting  on 
the  window-bench,  and  the  light,  falling  on  a  slope  of 
garden  that  was  always  green,  fell  also  on  Jenifer, 
on  her  bent  head,  her  warm  smooth  cheek.  She  had 
looked  up  on  Mr.  Corlyon's  entrance  and  her  glance 
had  been  welcoming.  He  noticed,  however,  that  it 
slid  past  him,  down  the  shop  to  the  door,  that  when 
she  returned  to  her  needlework  it  was  with  a  faint 
sigh. 

;'  What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

'Tis  an  order  we've  had  for  embroidery,  order 
from  young  Mrs.  Pendragon."  Between  her  fingers 
she  held  a  tiny  cap.  She  was  embroidering  on  it  a 
design,  the  crest  and  arms  of  the  Pendragons. 

"  Ah,"  said  Gale  and  seated  himself  beside  her  on  the 
bench,  "  I  call  that  a  waste  of  time.  You  should  be 
minding  your  own  work  and  leave  doing  other 
peoples'." 

His   nearness   affected  her  unpleasantly.     It  was 

49 
D 


50  THE  HAUNTING 

not  Mr.  Corlyon  who  should  have  sat  there.  But  that 
was  always  the  way.  The  wrong  man  came,  while 
the  one  for  whom  you  looked  till  you  were  so  restless 
you  did  not  know  how  to  sit  still,  he  was  late. 

Where  was  Pascoe  ?  He  had  said  he  was  coming  to 
supper,  that  he  would  come  in  with  his  brother. 

Why  then  had  Mr.  Corlyon  come  in  by  himself  ? 
Did  it  mean  Pascoe  had  gone  elsewhere  ?  She  glanced 
at  the  other.  She  would  have  liked  to  question  him, 
but  could  not  quite  get  the  words  past  her  lips. 

Over  her  tilted  face  the  sun  poured  a  revealing 
clarity  of  light.  Gale  looked  at  her  lips.  Soffr  full 
red  lips.  He  put  out  a  hand  .  .  . 

He  would  take  the  round  white  chin  in  his  hand, 
pull  her  nearer. 

"  Don't,"  she  said,  her  voice  harsh,  but  instantly 
she  repented.  She  was  being  rude  to  Mammy's 
friend.  "  I — I  don't  like  being  touched." 

He  leaned  forward,  came  within  that  radiance  of 
sun.  "  What  !  not  even  by  me  ?  " 

Grey  hairs  at  his  temples  .  .  .  old  as  her  mother, 
older  .  .  .  and  his  hand  !  The  skin  on  it  was  loose, 
the  knuckles  were  large,  the  flesh  had  gone  from  the 
bones.  It  was  an  old  hand 

"  No." 

A  quality  in  his  voice  that  she  deprecated.  ;c  Why 
not,  Jenifer  ?  " 

She  might  not  tell  him,  not  yet.  Perhaps  after 
to-night  .  .  . 

"  You  are  Mammy's  friend."  She  had  got  up, 
moved  away. 

"  I'd  rather  be  yours." 

"  You  can't  be." 

"  Don't  you  say  that  to  me."    He  spoke  with  a 


THE   HAUNTING  51 

vehemence  that  was  startling  and  on  his  face  was  a 
plain  nakedness  of  desire.  Jenifer  shrank  from  it. 
Not  Mr.  Corlyon,  no. 

"  You  are  too  old,"  she  said,  fending  him  off  with 
the  weapon  readiest  to  hand. 

"  I  am  not.  It  isn't  that."  The  new  difficult  voice 
beat  harshly  on  her  reserve.  She  had  not  known, 
had  not  even  dimly  suspected,  had  always  thought  of 
him  as  a  quiet  old  boy,  Mammy's  friend.  Yes,  and  he 
was  old  ;  but,  as  he  said,  it  wasn't  that.  Her  heart 
was  full  .  .  .  full  of  secret  trouble  .  .  .  why  did  he 
come  bothering  ? 

"  'Tis,  then." 

"  Jenifer,  'tis  you  I  want  and  nobody  else." 

The  tears  .  .  .  annoyance,  shame,  even  a  vague 
pity  for  the  man  because  of  that  urge  in  his  voice, 
because  she  understood  too  well,  stood  in  her  eyes. 
"  No." 

"  You  can't  care  for  anyone  else  ?  "  He  searched 
the  soft  face,  trying  to  look  through  it  into  the  girl's 
heart.  "  Surely  not — you  are  too  young  ?  " 

Too  young — she  ! 

And  the  last  three  months,  the  longing,  the  fear. 
"  Don't  !  "  she  said  and  lifted  her  hand  as  if  the 
words  were  tangible,  were  sharp,  stabbing  things,  as 
if  she  would  shield  her  heart  from  them. 

But  his  need  of  her  was  blinding  him.  "  I've  come 
here  week  after  week " 

He  had  come  to  supper  with  her  mother  and  after 
the  meal  they  had  played  cribbage  or  sat  one  on  each 
side  of  the  hearth  talking  or  had  gone  for  a  stroll — 
he  and  her  mother. 

"  I've  come  thinking  to  have  a  word  with  you  ? 
Even  a  look  would  have  been  enough.  I  used  to 


52  THE  HAUNTING 

wonder  sometimes  whether  perhaps  my  brother  — 

Ah,  now  .  .  .  she  and  Pascoe,  they  had  tried  to  be 
secret ;  but  love  is  a  red  flag  in  the  breeze  and  how 
can  it  fail  of  being  seen  ? 

"  But,  last  night— 

"  Yes  ?  " 

He  missed  the  wherefore  of  her  sudden  keenness. 
"  I  made  up  my  mind,  last  night,  not  to  let  it  go  on 
any  longer.  ..." 

Let  what  go  on  ?     Had  Pascoe  said  anything  ? 

"  At  any  rate  you  should  know  ..." 

Know  ?     Know  what  ? 

"  That  'twas  you  I  want." 

That  he  wanted  her,  he  who  mattered  to  her  no 
more  than  last  year's  roses.  She  could  have  cried 
with  vexation  ;  and,  suddenly,  she  felt  that  his  grey 
Jiairs,  his  old  hand,  did  really  matter.  She  wanted 
Pascoe,  his  divinely  rough  hard  kisses  ;  and,  for  the 
moment,  with  a  swing  of  emotion,  she  hated  Gale. 
"  Don't  be  so  foolish  as  to  think  anything  about  me," 
she  cried,  in  the  exasperation  of  her  longing.  "  I 
don't  want  you  to.  I  can't  bear  that  you  should." 

The  stair  creaked  under  a  quick  tread.  The  latch 
of  the  green  door  lifted  and,  conscience -stricken, 
Jenifer  realized  that  the  table  was  not  yet  laid  for 
supper.  What  would  Mammy  think  ?  She  flew  to 
the  drawer  for  a  clean  cloth  as  Mrs.  Liddicoat  in  a 
gown  of  dark  purple  with  a  ruffle  of  lace  at  the  end 
of  discreet  sleeves,  with  a  gold  glint  on  the  French 
lace  of  her  collar,  stepped  down  into  the  room.  Her 
bright  glance  gathered  in,  at  once,  the  girl,  collecting 
in  haste  glass  and  cutlery,  the  man  on  the  window- 
bench.  They  would  have  been  chatting  and  that 
would  have  made  them  forget  the  time  ...  a  good 


THE   HAUNTING  53 

thing  Jenifer  liked  him  well  enough  to  chat  with  him. 

"  And  where's  Pascoe  ?  " 

But  the  long-longed-for  was  at  length  come  .  .  . 
the  sailor,  genial  and  hearty,  had  stepped  in  out  of  the 
chilly  street. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Liddicoat  in  her  comfortable  way, 
"  needn't  ask  because  here  he  is  now,  coming  in." 

But  she  could  have  wished  her  daughter  had  not 
glowed  with  that  quick  increase  of  life.  When  she 
came  down  it  had  been  a  folded  Jenifer,  a  Jenifer 
shadowy  under  the  eyes,  now  it  was  a  maid  flowering. 
And  Pascoe  ?  The  mother  could  not  tell.  .  .  . 

No  use  worrying,  the  young  people  must  do  as  they 
would. 

She  glanced  away  from  Pascoe  and  Jenifer,  glanced 
at  Mr.  Corlyon.  Was  it  her  fancy  or  did  he  look 
tired  ?  Been  working  too  hard,  perhaps.  Ah  well, 
she  knew  what  should  be  waiting  for  a  man  at  the  end 
of  his  day's  labour,  and  she  smiled  reassuringly,  for 
the  chicken  had  been  in  the  oven  just  long  enough,  it 
would  be  done  to  a  turn. 

ii 

"  There  is  someone  in  the  shop,  Jenifer." 

The  girl,  still  busy  with  the  embroidery,  was  sitting 
by  the  white  lamp. 

"  I  think,"  Mrs.  Liddicoat  added,  "  it  must  be  a 
man  from  Caer." 

"  I  have  got  six  done,"  Jenifer  said.  She  was  to 
have  the  money  for  them  ;  and,  until  Pascoe  came 
home,  had  worked  briskly  on  the  fine  cambric.  Since 
then  the  time  had  gone,  she  did  not  know  how. 

"  Tell  him  you'll  have  the  others  ready  by  the  next 
time  he  comes  into  Stowe." 


54  THE  HAUNTING 

It  would  be  Denny  Manhire,  the  groom  ;  and  he 
would  have  come  to  see  Jenifer.  Mrs.  Liddicoat  did 
not  offer  to  go  in  the  girl's  place.  Jenifer  managed 
her  own  affairs. 

And  Jenifer,  laying  down  the  cap,  wished  her  mother 
were  not  always  so  thoughtful.  She  had  been  sitting 
by  Pascoe,  listening  to  his  sea-talk  and  she  knew  that 
the  lamp-light,  falling  on  her  work,  on  her  bright  loose 
hair,  on  her  full  figure,  was  doing  her  a  kindness. 
But,  in  the  dimly-lighted  shop,  Denzil  Manhire,  the 
hard  sprig  of  a  stem  of  heather  between  his  teeth, 
was  waiting  for  her  and  he  didn't  care  how  long  he 
waited. 

"  I  will  be  back  in  a  minute,"  she  said,  looking  up 
with  eyes  that  not  so  long  ago  Pascoe  had  found  dis- 
turbing, that  he  still  thought  were  fine. 

Jenifer,  handing  Denny  the  little  parcel  of  completed 
caps,  explained  that  the  others  had  yet  to  be  embroid- 
ered. Perhaps  .  .  .  next  time  he  was  in  Stowe.  .  .  . 

That  would  be  all  right.  Mrs.  Pendragon  did  not 
need  her  "  traade,"  not  yet ;  and  he  was  coming  over 
next  week,  would  see  to  it  that  it  was  he,  not  Trispin 
Job,  who  came. 

Meanwhile  he  had  something  to  tell  her. 

"  Have  you,  then  ?  "  She  wanted  to  get  back  to 
Pascoe  .  .  .  this  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  him, 
really  seen  him  to  talk  to,  since  his  return  home. 
Still  .  .  .  there  was  no  real  hurry  .  .  .  not  a  bad 
thing  to  let  him  know  that  others  liked  her. 

"  Maister  say  I  can  have  the  rooms  over  the  stable 
.  .  .  four  good  rooms  and  a  stove."  Before  that  he 
had  been  only  one  of  the  grooms,  now  he  had  a  home 
to  offer. 

Though  Jenifer  wanted  to  say  the  kind  thing,  she 


THE  HAUNTING  55 

did  not  wish  him  to  think  those  four  rooms  could 
mean^anything  to  her. 

"  I  suppose  your  mother's  coming  to  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  No,  she  don't  want  to  leave  Bloomfield."  She 
had  said  that  nothing  would  induce  her  to  live  over  a 
lot  of  horses  ..."  the  noise  of  they  things  stanking 
up  and  down  and  the  smell."  But  he  withheld  her 
comment.  He  wanted  Jenifer  to  see  the  little  rooms 
as  comfortable,  handsome. 

''  Well,  if  you  can't  get  your  mother  you  must  get 
somebody  else.  I  daresay  there  would  be  jplenty 
who  would  like  to  come." 

He  was  big  and  fair.  Plenty  of  maidens  in  St.  Ryn 
who  would  be  walking  on  the  headland,  Sundays,  if 
Denzil  Manhire  lived  over  Caer  stables. 

"  If  I  can't  have  the  one  I  want,  I'll  do  for  myself." 

"  Well,"  she  said  non-committally,  "  you  know 
your  own  mind  better'n  anyone  else.  You  must 
please  yourself." 

"  Jenifer —  He  leaned  towards  her  across  the 

painted  deal  of  the  counter,  "  can't  'ee  come  out  for  a 
walk  ?  " 

Against  shop  etiquette  to  turn  a  customer  away,  but 
she  seized  the  opening.  "  No,  I  can't  to-night, 
because  we  have  got  somebody  in." 

;'  Well,  will  you  the  next  time  I  come  over  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  busy." 

"  You  might  as  well,  just  for  old  time's  sake. 
Won't  'ee  now  ?  " 

She  wavered.  No  harm  in  that,  and  she  and  Denny 
had  been  friends  this  many  a  year.  "  We'll  see," 
she  said,  "  but  don't  you  build  your  hopes  too  much." 

Better  than  nothing,  he  thought,  as  he  mounted 
and,  with  the  little  packet  safe  in  his  pocket,  rode  from 


56  THE  HAUNTING 

Stowe.  The  Master  was  in  good  humour  these  days, 
willing  to  give  other  men  a  chance,  and  the  four 
rooms  .  .  .  Denny  was  some  hand  at  the  carpenter- 
ing, he  could  put  together  a  bacon  rack,  a  bench  for  the 
wall,  a  cupboard.  He  rode  warm,  thinking  of  winter 
evenings.  .  .  . 

Jenifer  following  him  to  the  door,  had  watched  him 
ride  away.  The  street  was  empty,  but  the  shops 
still  glowed,  a  little  riband  of  brightness,  along  the 
edge  of  the  dark  houses.  "  Pascoe,"  she  called 
softly  over  her  shoulder,  "  come  and  get  a  mouthful 
of  fresh  air." 


in 

As  it  was  past  closing  time,  Jenifer  turned  the 
lamp  lower.  It  flickered  for  a  minute  or  two  and 
went  out,  but  the  place  was  not  altogether  in  dark- 
ness. From  the  room  in  which  Mammy  was  playing 
cribbage  with  Mr.  Corlyon  .  .  .  "  fifteen  two,  fifteen 
four  and  a  pair's  six  ..."  flecks  and  beams  of  light. 
The  biggest,  falling  through  the  square  opening  that 
raked  the  shop,  lay  like  moonlight  along  the  floor. 
Pascoe  crossed  it  as  he  joined  Jenifer  at  the  door. 

"  Terribly  hot  in  there,"  she  said,  turning  her  face 
to  the  breeze  that  came  up  the  street  from  the  harbour. 

"  You  like  the  fresh  air,  Jennie  ?  " 

"  I  like  the  breeze,"  she  said,  "  it  blows  you  home 
to  me." 

Pascoe's  tongue  seemed  to  be  stiffly  hung  ...  if 
only  he  could  have  trusted  Gale  to  send  out  the  money, 
if  he  had  not  had  to  return  !  He  wondered,  with  a 
sinking  heart,  what  was  immediately  ahead  of  him 
.  .  .  discomfort,  of  course,  and  he  deserved  it ;  but, 


THE  HAUNTING  57 

if  everybody  got  their  deserts,  it  would  be  an  ugly 
world. 

"  The  three  months,"  Jenifer  said,  "  have  gone 
slowly.  I  only  got  one  letter  from  you 

"  Which  ?  "  said  he. 

"  The  letter  you  posted  at  Trinidad  and  after  that 
never  a  word." 

"  I  told  you  about  my  time  in  hospital."  Although 
the  long  immersion  had  not  been  death,  he  had  come 
from  it  into  a  new  phase  of  life.  Until  this  evening 
he  had  not  wasted  a  thought  on  the  old  existence,  at 
least  hardly  a  thought,  not  any  on  Jenifer. 

Even  now  he  saw  her  as  across  a  dark  space. 

"  You've  been  in  Stowe  two  days,"  she  said,  "  yet 
you  never  been  to  see  me." 

A  rainbow  bridge  was  being  laid  across  the  darkness. 
"  Don't  bother  about  that,"  he  said,  putting  his  arm 
over  her  shoulders — shoulders  firm  as  warmed  marble. 
"  You've  got  me,  now." 

She  put  her  hand  against  his  breast,  not  harshly 
but  so  that  he  should  see  she  had  found  him  negligent. 
"  Do  you  mean  that  ?  " 

"  Kiss  me  ..."  that  wonderful  mouth  of  hers  ! 
His  arm  tightened  and,  though  she  doubted,  she  saw 
no  reason  to  resist.  He  was  come  back,  he  wanted  to 
kiss  her,  surely  she  had  him  still  ?  Her  arms  went 
up  round  his  neck.  "  I've  wanted  you  so  terribly." 


"  When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  .  .  .  laid  out  to 
dry  and  pretty  warm  !  " 

"  I  might  have  lost  you."  The  details  of  that  life 
and  death  adventure  were  poignantly  interesting, 


58  THE  HAUNTING 

but  he  was  safe  .  .  .  given  back  to  her  .  .  .  She 
looked  at  the  dark  face,  clear  in  the  many  broken 
lights  that  had  lifted  night  from  the  street.  "  I  wish 
you  wasn't  a  sailor." 

"  Well,"  he  said  easily,  "  perhaps  I  have  been  knock- 
ing around  this  old  earth  long  enough." 

"  You  are  going  to  stay  home  ?  " 

"  I've  had  a  job  offered  me  and  I  hardly  know  what 
to  do  about  it." 

"  In  Stowe  ?  " 

"  Out  there." 

"  Should  you  have  to  live  there  ?  " 

"  For  a  bit." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  that  then." 

"  D'you  want  to  stop  here  all  your  life  ?  " 

"  Please,  Pascoe." 

And  she  could,  for  all  he  cared. 

"  I'll  have  to  go  out  again "  He  knew  instantly 

that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  Why  couldn't  he  have 
held  his  tongue  ?  "To  settle  up,"  he  concluded, 
lamely. 

"  But  not  just  at  once  ?  "     Her  tone  was  anxious. 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  Can't  we  be  married  Before  you  go  ?  " 

He  remembered,  as  if  it  had  been  an  occurrence  in  a 
former  life,  that  he  had  promised  to  marry  her.  To 
think  she  should  have  taken  him  so  seriously  1 

"  Married  before  I  go  ?  Well,  we  will."  Best  to 
agree.  He  did  not  want  a  fuss.  It  was  quite  enough 
to  have  his  brother  unreasonable  and  ill-tempered  .  .  . 

She  snuggled  closer.     "  You'll  see  about  it,  then  ?  " 

"  It  ?  " 

"  The "  he  might  have  helped  her  out,  "  the 

banns,  Pascoe." 


THE  HAUNTING  59 

"  The  banns  ?  " 

"  You'll  have  to  see  Mr.  Stokoe,  to  put  them  in." 

"  I'll  see  him  on  Monday."  His  hand  tightened  on 
her,  and  he  laughed.  She  thought  she  had  him,  but 
he  had  arranged  to  leave  Stowe  on  Sunday  night. 
By  Monday  he  would  be  aboard  ship. 

What  a  rare  old  joke  ! 


CHAPTER  V 


BY  the  draped  toilet  table  Jenifer  was  brushing  her 
hair.  Parted  in  the  middle,  it  fell  in  smooth  bright 
waves  on  either  side,  and  Mrs.  Liddicoat,  already  in 
bed,  watched  broodingly. 

Behind  her  was  the  comfort  of  three  pillows  ;  and, 
lying  down,  she  yet  commanded  the  room,  the  big 
low  room  that  spread  over  shop  and  kitchen,  filling 
the  space  between  Tippett,  the  watchmaker,  on  her 
right,  and  Rabey,  the  newsagent,  on  her  left.  Strange, 
she  thought,  to  have  other  people  within  a  yard  or 
two  on  both  sides,  and  yet  be  cut  off  from  all  but  a 
dim  knowledge  of  them.  She  and  her  daughter, 
though  closely  encompassed  by  the  many  people  of 
Stowe,  were  absolutely  alone  in  the  small  space  of 
this  room. 

Yes,  and  each  of  them  was  shut  away  from  the 
other.  Mrs.  Liddicoat's  middle-aged  flesh  was  folded 
about  secret  hopes.  Time  made  only  one  difference. 
You  still  wanted  things,  but  now  you  feared  it  was 
too  late,  that  you  would  not  get  what  you  wanted. 

Not  you  .  .  .  but  also  not  Jenifer,  who  was  young. 
Ah,  the  poor  maid,  yet  before  her  were  the  years  that 
had  gone  by  for  you,  the  years  in  which  things  might 
happen,  good  things,  the  supreme  good. 

She  was  very  quiet,  had  not  spoken  since  they  had 
come  upstairs  together,  but  she  did  not  seem 

60 


THE  HAUNTING  61 

unhappy.  Mrs.  Liddicoat  meditated  on  her  daughter's 
dreamy  withdrawn  expression.  She  and  Pascoe 
had  stood  for  a  long  time  in  the  dusk  at  the  shop  door 
.  .  .  voices  and  silences,  and  then  voices,  the  mother 
had  taken  note.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Mr.  Corlyon's 
news  she  might  have  thought  Pascoe  was  still  fond 
of  Jenifer ;  but  the  older  man's  annoyance  had 
revealed  a  sincere  belief.  And  Jenifer  was  in  ignor- 
ance .  .  .  Pascoe  would  have  told  her  a  parcel  of 
lies. 

Mrs.  Liddicoat  did  not  want  to  make  the  girl 
unhappy  ;  but  no  good  came  of  keeping  people  in 
the  dark. 

"  Well,  dear  life,"  she  began,  "  had  a  pleasant 
evening  ?  " 

Jenifer,  with  quick  fingers,  began  to  plait  the 
shining  hair  into  a  long  tail.  "  Very,"  and  she  drew 
a  contented  breath,  "  I — I  was  a  bit  worried  not 
hearing  from  Pascoe  for  so  long,  but  he've  made  it 
all  right." 

"  Have  he  ?  "    Then  it  was  as  she  had  guessed  .  .  . 

Jenifer,  blowing  out  the  candle,  jumped  into  bed  ; 
and,  between  her  and  her  parent,  the  big  feather 
mattress  rose  in  a  soft  curve. 

"  We  are  going  to  be  married,"  she  said. 

The  room  was  not  altogether  dark,  for  a  greyness 
had  slipped  through  the  slats  of  the  Venetian  blind  ; 
a  greyness  that  tempered  the  velvet  of  the  night. 
Mrs.  Liddicoat,  however,  could  not  discern  the  features 
on  the  other  pillow.  "  Married  ?  " 

"  Pascoe  promised  before  he  went  that,  as  soon  as 
he  came  back,  we'd  be  married.  Why,  Mammy, 
you  knew  that,  I  didn't  make  no  secret  of  it." 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  but  three  months  makes  a  lot  of 


62  THE  HAUNTING 

difference  to  a  man.  They  don't  come  back  same  as 
they  go." 

"  Pascoe  have." 

"  Jenifer,  dear,  was  it  he  who  spoke  of  the  marriage, 
or  was  it  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  Mammy,  what's  the  matter  ?  "  Her  fears, 
dispelled  for  a  little,  crowded  back.  The  talk  of 
marriage  ...  it  had  been  she,  not  Pascoe  ;  still,  he 
had  not  hesitated. 

"  Mr.  Corlyon  been  talking  to  me." 

Jenifer  felt,  of  a  sudden,  angry  with  him.  "  Old 
gossip,  then  !  " 

"  No,  my  dear,  he  don't  gossip,  and  what's  more, 
he  don't  lie." 

"  What  have  he  said  ?  "  She  did  not  want  to  know, 
for  what  her  mother  had  said  in  his  defence  was  true. 

"He  say  Pascoe's  going  straight  off  back  to 
Jamaica." 

"  Yes,  he'm  going  back,  but  not  for  a  bit." 

"  Mr.  Corlyon  told  me  ship  was  sailing  Monday." 

"  It  may,  but  Pascoe  won't  be  in  it." 

"  Why  is  he  going  back  at  all  ?  " 

"  He've  things  to  settle  up." 

"  He  have,  indeed,  there's  a  maid  .  .  .   ' 

"  Mammy  !  " 

"  They'm  tokened."  She  had  dropped  back  into 
the  vernacular.  "  Iss,  my  dear,  they  be,  and  he've 
come  back  to  fetch  what  be  'is'n." 

"  No  !  "  Her  denial  was  violent.  "  I  don't  believe 

it.  Why "  With  his  kisses  still  warm  upon  her 

lips  how  could  she  believe  ? 

Mrs.  Liddicoat,  leaning  against  the  three  pillows, 
said  no  more.  Best  to  let  it  sink  in. 

"  Mammy — it  isn't  true  !    Oh — you  don't  think  it 


THE   HAUNTING  63 

true  ?    Mammy  .  .  .  '      A  hand  came  out,  caught  at 
her  shoulder.     "  Oh,  Mammy,  say  it  isn't  true  !  " 
"  My  dearie  .  .  .  what  would  be  the  good  ?  " 

ii 

"But  why  did  he  ..."  Jenifer,  looking  back,  was 
noting  straws.  To  begin  with,  her  mother,  having 
learned  from  Mr.  Corlyon  when  Pascoe  was  expected, 
had  told  her,  and  she  had  watched  for  him  to  pass 
down  the  street. 

Watched  and  watched,  but  he  had  come  by  way  of 
the  quay. 

That  morning  she  had  met  him  by  accident  in  the 
fish  market,  and  he  had  declared  he  was  on  his  way 
to  the  baby-linen  shop  .  .  . 

Anyway,  he  was  coming  to  supper,  he  and  his 
brother. 

She  had  been  ready  early,  and  Mr.  Corlyon  had 
come,  but  Pascoe  had  been  late. 

He  had  explained  why,  and  the  explanation  had 
seemed  ...  at  the  moment  ...  to  hold  water. 

Home  after  three  months'  absence,  and  he  a  lover  ? 
He  should  not  have  been  late. 

He  need  not  have  been.  Not  if  he  had  really  and 
truly  wanted  to  come. 

Well,  avoidance  .  .  .  she  must  grant  that ;  but 
surely  it  only  showed  she  was  not  powerless,  that  the 
woman  in  Jamaica  had  no  very  strong  hold. 

Why  should  she  have  him  ?  He  had  been  Jenifer's, 
and  there  were  reasons  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  want  for  him  to  go  back."  Mammy  would 
help.  When  you  got  through  your  own  strength, 
your  own  resources,  there  was  always  .  .  .  Mammy  ! 
"  He  promised " 


64  •  THE  HAUNTING 

"  Ay,  men'll  promise.     It  don't  mean  nothing." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

Mrs.  Liddicoat  stroked  the  hot  head.  Was  Pascoe 
worth  keeping,  Pascoe  who  so  evidently  had  meant 
to  leave  his  old  sweetheart  in  the  lurch  ?  The  boy 
was  some  handsome  with  his  hair,  curly  as  the  middle 
of  a  sheep's  back,  but  he  had  a  many  fancies,  never 
stuck  to  no  one.  If  Jenifer  married  him  it  would  be  a 
case  of  losing  him,  first  to  this  woman,  then  to  that. 
Better  lose  him  now,  for  good  and  all. 

"  To-day's  Friday,"  she  spoke  tentatively,  "  and 
Sunday  evening  he  catches  the  coach  at  Triggyveal. 
There  edn't  much  time." 

Jenifer  realized  that  Pascoe  had  meant  to  creep  into 
Stowe,  gather  up  his  belongings,  and  be  gone.  Her 
heart  swelled.  He  was  her  man,  but  someone  else 
had  put  a  spell  on  him. 

"  He  wanted  to  get  away  quick,"  she  said,  with  a 
fresh  rush  of  tears.  How  could  he  behave  so  ?  She 
had  been  sweet  to  him,  always  sweet,  and  this  was 
the  return  he  made.  How  had  he  had  the  heart  .  .  . 

"  Would  you  like  for  me  to  speak  to  Mr.  Corlyon  ?  " 

"  'Twouldn't  be  no  use."  If  Mr.  Corlyon  knew, 
he  would  see  reason  to  hasten  Pascoe's  departure. 
No,  they  must  manage  without  his  help.  Her  indig- 
nation with  Gale  flashed  into  flame.  Why,  at  this 
moment,  when  she  had  so  many  worries,  did  he  want 
to 'add  to  them  ? 

"  Shall  I  see  Pascoe,  then  ?  " 

Jenifer,  her  head  in  the  hollow  of  her  mother's 
shoulder,  was  silent  for  a  little,  thinking.  See  Pascoe  ? 
If  anyone  saw  him  it  had  better  be  she.  Having  the 
knowledge  that  he  had  meant  to  desert  her,  she  could 
be  explicit.  He  should  know  what  he  was  doing. 


THE  HAUNTING  65 

"  Mammy,  I'll  see  him  myself.  I  can  say  things  to 
him  that  you  can't.  But  I  dunno  .  .  .  he's  a  slippery 
one  ...  " 

"  He's  a  proper  dragon." 

"I  want  to  make  it  so  that  he  just  can't  go."  She  was 
silent  again,  and  this  time  for  so  long  that  Mrs. 
Liddicoat  thought  she  must  be  getting  sleepy. 

She  stirred  at  last.  "  There's  the  charmer  to 
Springs  .  .  .  ' 

"  Isaiah  Quinion  ?    Yes." 

**  I  believe  he  can  do  anything  he've  a  mind  to." 


in 

Mrs.  Liddicoat  thought  little  Maddicott,  of  the 
Cornish  Arms,  might  know  the  way  to  Springs.  It 
was  on  the  downs,  fifteen  to  twenty  miles  from  Stowe. 
She  knew  vaguely  the  direction  in  which  it  lay  .  .  . 
somewhere  among  the  hills  east  of  the  town,  the  round 
hills,  visible  on  a  fair  day  from  the  back  window 
upstairs,  but  she  had  never  had  reason,  hitherto,  to 
visit  Isaiah  Quinion,  or,  as  the  town  called  him, 
"  the  ole  feller  what  charm." 

She  told  Mr.  Maddicott  that  the  mole  on  her  cheek 
was  giving  trouble,  and  moles  were  unsightly,  and 
she'd  like  it  gone.  Would  he  drive  her  over  to  Springs 
in  his  wagonnette  ?  And  he  agreed. 

From  a  country  of  deep  lanes  the  party  gradually 
came  to  wide  stretches  of  country.  The  hedges 
thinned  away,  the  trees  shrank  into  furze.  In  an 
unhurried  trot  the  shaggy  pony  carried  the  Liddicoats 
past  Bogee  and  Mount  Misery,  past  Crackruddle  and 
Music  Water  and  Wynnards  Perch  and  Rosevannion. 
The  moorland  air  brought  them  the  scent  of  the 


66  THE   HAUNTING 

heather,  and  Mrs.  Liddicoat,  sniffing,  wondered  what 
it  might  be  that  smelt  of  honey. 

"  'Tis  some  time  since  I  been  out  here,"  little 
Maddicott  said,  stopping  to  ask  a  man  where  he  should 
turn  off  the  highway.  "  I've  forgot  whether  we  go 
through  this  farm  or  the  next." 

"  But  you've  been  here  before,  Mr.  Maddicott  ?  " 

"  Oh,  iss — drove  Emma  Pollard  out  last  feasten. 
She  had  a  running  sore  in  her  head,  tarrible  bad  it 
were  ;  but  Isaiah  Quinion  charmed  it,  he  did,  and 
you  should  see  it  now.  Lovely  head  of  hair.  They 
say  she  was  the  last  person  he  cured." 

"  The  last  ?     Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  You  know  he  is  dead,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Dead  ?    No,  I  never  heard." 

"  Died  last  Christmas.  'Tis  his  daughter,  Elizabeth 
Brenton,  do  the  charmin'  now  ;  old  man  taught  her 
before  he  died." 

"  Ah,  they  say  the  '  gift  '  go  from  man  to  woman," 
but  she  was  a  little  troubled.  She  had  come  to  consult 
an  old  and  experienced  man,  a  man  who,  though  he 
lived  remote  from  towns,  was  famous  as  far  as  Bodmin, 
perhaps  even  Truro,  for  his  cures  of  ringworm,  wildfire, 
adder's  bite,  and  for  his  wisdom.  Did  the  gift  really 
go  from  father  to  daughter  ?  Could  young  Mrs. 
Brenton  have  inherited  the  wisdom  ? 

Mr.  Maddicott  turned  through  a  farmyard  on  to 
the  open  moor.  A  trackway  crossed  the  unfenced 
land  which  was  dark  with  strange  vegetation,  dark, 
and  yet  richly  coloured.  The  slopes  were  red  with 
heather,  and  yellow  with  gorse.  The  many  waters 
ran  chuckling  and  gurgling  over  brown  beds.  It 
was  indeed  a  land  of  great  space  and  many  waters, 
a  land  strange  to  Mrs.  Liddicoat.  She  looked  with 


THE  HAUNTING  67 

interest  at  the  gushing  springs,  at  the  gleams  between 
the  black  stems  of  the  plants.  Where  a  stream  ran 
over  the  trackway,  a  clapper  bridge,  a  bridge  made 
of  a  single  moor  stone,  had  been  laid  above  it  for  the 
foot  traveller,  but  the  pony  splashed  indifferently 
through  the  water. 

"  'Tis  no  wonder  this  place  is  called  the  Springs," 
she  said,  and  Maddicott  told  her  he,  for  one,  would 
not  try  to  walk  to  the  Quinion's  farmstead  across 
country.  It  was  marshy,  sodden,  with  unexpected 
pits  and  quags. 

The  house  lay  some  miles  beyond  the  last  moorland 
village,  a  lone  building  of  grey  stone,  widely  visible 
upon  the  treeless  moor.  About  it  the  springs  burbled, 
breaking  from  the  heathy  ground,  spreading  over  the 
stones,  busy  with  their  singing  and  pouring.  Mrs. 
Liddicoat  and  Jenifer  left  the  wagonnette  at  the 
farm  gate,  and  went  on  alone  to  the  knoll  on  which 
the  house  was  built,  and  so  to  the  glazed  porch  at  the 
front. 

A  homely,  middle-aged  woman  led  them  through  a 
stone  hall,  the  blue  grey  walls  of  which  were  unbroken 
by  peg  or  nail.  Throwing  open  the  door  of  a  parlour 
and  ushering  them  in,  she  said  she  would  fetch  her 
daughter. 

"  There  are  children  here,"  Mrs.  Liddicoat  said, 
pointing  to  a  boy's  whip  which  lay  across  the  books 
on  the  table.  She  spoke  softly  for  she  was  nervous. 

Jenifer,  who  had  been  thinking  over  what  she  had 
to  say  and  ask,  seemed  to  awaken.  "  Why,  yes, 
I've  heard  Elizabeth  has  a  boy.  Her  husband  teals 
Springs  for  Mr.  Quinion — I  mean  for  her." 

"  Saving  man,  Mr.  Quinion,  if  he  bought  Springs 
with  what  he  made  by  charming.  But  there,  people'll 


68  THE  HAUNTING 

pay   anything    if   they   get    what   they    do    want." 
The  door  opened,  and  the  young  woman,  on  whom 
the   mantle    of    Isaiah    Quinion    had   fallen,    came 
quietly  into  the  room. 


rv 

"  I  don't  do  this  sort  of  thing,"  Elizabeth  Brenton 
said.  Jenifer  had  gone  with  her  to  an  upper  room 
and,  sitting  on  the  one  chair  while  the  other  leaned 
against  the  chill  white  bed,  had  explained  her  wishes. 
"  I  cure  disease.  I  can  make  that  mole  drop  off  your 
mother's  face  ;  but  I  don't  meddle  with  what  might 
not  be  right." 

"  You  could  do  this  for  me,"  Jenifer  said,  "  I  know 
you  could."  The  dark  eyes  under  winged  brows  gave 
her  confidence.  This  woman,  young,  remote,  and 
yet  a  mother,  had  the  power  to  help  her. 

"  There's  bad  charms  as  well  as  good,  but  I  only 
learnt  the  good  ones.  My  charms  are  prayers." 

Jenifer  was  convinced  that  they  were  more  than 
prayers.  Without  doing  anything  Elizabeth  Brenton 
made  you  conscious  of  her  power.  It  was  a  power 
for  good.  You  saw  her,  and  knew  at  once  that  she 
could  heal,  that  she  could  help  you.  "  Then  pray 
for  me,"  Jenifer  said. 

The  dark  eyes  scrutinized  her,  the  witch  pondered 
over  what  she  saw,  and  Jenifer  waited  anxiously. 

"  You  say  he  promised  to  marry  you  ?  " 

"  He  promised  solemnly  that  he  would  come  back 
and  marry  me." 

"  And  there  is  a  good  reason  why  he  should  keep 
his  promise  ?  " 

Tears  came  easily  to  Jenifer.    "  Yes,"  she  said,  and 


THE  HAUNTING  69 

the  big  drops  splashed  down  on  to  her  clasped  hands. 

"  Have  you  anything  of  his  with  you  ?  " 

Having  come  prepared,  she  produced  the  long- 
hoarded  treasure  of  a  clean  white  handkerchief. 

"  I  promise  nothing,  but —  "  the  steady  eyes  were 
making  Jenifer  increasingly  conscious  of  the  something 
in  this  woman  which  would  make  her  help  efficacious, 
"  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  you — I  will  charm  this  hand- 
kerchief, and  you  must  give  it  to  him.  See  it  does 
not  touch  wood  before  you  put  it  into  his  hands." 
She  sat  down,  unfolded  the  handkerchief,  and  laid 
it  diamond- ways  across  her  knee.  "  Your  name  ?  " 

"  Jenifer  Liddicoat." 

"  And  his  name  ?  " 

"  Pascoe  Corlyon." 

Murmuring  the  names,  Mrs.  Brenton  bent  her 
small  dark  head  over  the  white  square.  "  I  have  to 
say  the  charm  three  times,"  and  turning  in  the 
opposite  corners,  she  folded  the  handkerchief  length- 
wise, so  that  it  resembled  a  long  bandage. 

"  I  can't  hear  what  you  say,"  Jenifer  said,  anxiously. 

"  That  is  right,  you  must  not  hear  the  words,  for 
they  are  the  charm."  She  smoothed  the  linen  with 
workworn  hands  on  which  the  nails  were  short  and 
small ;  then  began  to  mutter  a  sing-song  of  phrases. 
It  seemed  to  the  watching,  deeply-impressed  Jenifer 
as  if  Mrs.  Brenton  were  saying  them  into  the  handker- 
chief, and  that  her  voice  held  a  note  of  command. 
It  was  calm,  unhurried,  it  performed  a  ritual,  but 
behind  it  lay  force,  a  peculiar  sort  of  withdrawn 
concentrated  strength.  At  the  end,  she  uttered  an 
audible  invocation — "  in  the  Name  of  the  Father, 
and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 

The  smoothing,  by  the  two  hands  from  the  centre 


70  THE  HAUNTING 

to  right  and  left,  continued  for  some  time.  Jenifer 
felt  as  if  the  will  of  the  young  dark  witch  were  being 
made  manifest  in  that  chill  and  silent  room.  She  was 
convinced  that  what  Elizabeth  Brenton  willed  must 
come  to  pass  ;  that  once  the  handkerchief  had  been 
given  to  Pascoe  he  would  forget  the  overseas  woman. 

The  hands  ceased  their  earnest,  irregular,  and  yet 
rhythmical  movement.  Mrs.  Brenton  lifted  the  long 
folded  strip  and  breathed  upon  it,  breathed  into  it 
her  spirit.  The  ends  were  then  folded  over  charm 
and  breath. 

She  turned  to  Jenifer,  her  grave  face  full  of  kindli- 
ness. "  You  must  have  faith,"  she  said,  "  the  love 
he  had  for  you  is  still  there,  underneath." 

"  And  if  I  give  him  this  it  will  come  back  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  bring  it  back  ;  .  .  .  and," 
she  repeated  it,  "  you  must  have  faith." 


"  'Twill  be  all  right  I  b'lieve  if  I  press  this  with  an 
iron  before  I  take  it  over  to  the  Brown  House  ?  " 

The  Liddicoats,  starting  late  for  the  moor,  had  been 
all  Saturday  about  their  business.  When  they  reached 
home  the  evening  was  advanced,  and  neither  thought 
of  disturbing  the  brothers.  Sunday  lay  before  them, 
the  whole  of  a  white  day,  a  day  on  which  shops  were 
shut  and  man  seen  in  the  streets. 

"  Iron  isn't  wood,  my  dear  ;  but,  whatever  you 
do,  don't  let  it  touch  the  table  or  the  ironing  board." 

Jenifer  flattened  the  handkerchief  into  its  unusual 
folds.  It  made  a  square,  looked  indeed  much  as 
usual,  would  look,  she  thought,  all  right  to  a  man's 
eye.  She  was  a  little  uncertain  as  to  how  she  was 


THE  HAUNTING  71 

to  obtain  the  necessary  interview  with  Pascoe. 
Keep  watch  at  the  bulging  front  window  of  the 
bedroom  until  he  came  out,  then  meet  him,  as  it  were, 
by  accident  ?  She  put  on  a  hat,  and  seated  herself 
behind  the  long  Nottingham  lace  curtains.  She  could 
see  the  Brown  House  and  the  warehouses  beyond  it 
on  Quayside.  It  was  the  last  of  the  houses,  behind 
it  a  path  climbed  the  green  hill  and  ran  beside  the 
estuary  along  the  cliffs.  Jenifer  had  memories  of 
that  quiet  lane  from  which  the  path  sprang.  She 
had  waited  in  it  for  Pascoe,  had  gone  there  to  meet 
him.  So  close  to  the  heart  of  Stowe,  yet  unfrequented  ; 
a  little  green  place,  not  overlooked  by  any  window. 
Mrs.  Liddicoat  went  up  the  road  to  church,  and 
when  she  returned  Jenifer  was  still  at  the  window. 

"  Come  and  eat  your  dinner,"  she  said.  "They 
won't  be  going  out  now.  If  I  was  you,  dearie,  I'd 
just  go  straight  in  this  afternoon  and  ask  for  him." 
But  Jenifer  wished  to  see  Pascoe  alone.  She  could 
not  utter  what  had  to  be  said  with  Mr.  Corlyon  listen- 
ing. She  was  shy  of  Mr.  Corlyon.  She  wanted  him 
out  of  the  way. 

"  Oh,  go  on,"  her  mother  said,  "  he  won't  eat  you. 
I  lay  he  know  Pascoe  has  been  courting  ye." 

But  he  didn't  know,  and  he  mustn't.  Jenifer 
could  not  bear  that  he  should.  After  dinner,  she 
resumed  her  vigil,  but  that  afternoon  no  one  either 
came  out  of  or  went  into  the  Brown  House. 

Jenifer  waited  in  what  was  almost  a  stupor  of 
anxiety  ;  but  at  last,  her  patience  exhausted,  she 
decided  that  whatever  might  be  thought  by  an 
observant  public  of  her  going  to  the  house,  go  she 
must.  As  smoke  was  rising  from  the  kitchen  chimney, 
she  knew  someone  must  be  at  home,  and  she  could 


72  THE  HAUNTING 

only  hope  it  wasn't  Mr.  Corlyon.  She  had  waited 
so  long  now  that  the  roads  were  filling  with  shadows. 
Perhaps  her  flitting  figure  might  pass  unnoticed, 
anyway,  the  need  was  on  her.  Pascoe  would  be  going 
soon,  and  she  must  see  him,  give  him  the  handker- 
chief, tell  him  the  truth.  He  would  not  go  when  he 
knew  .  .  . 

The  gate  at  the  end  of  the  short  garden  creaked 
as  she  pushed  it  open.  No  one  at  the  parlour  window. 
She  wished  that  she  dare  look  over  the  brown  wire 
blind  and,  if  Pascoe  were  alone,  signal  to  him.  But 
Mr.  Corlyon  would  probably  be  there  too,  and  he 
would  think  . . .  yes,  seeing  her,  what  would  he  think  ? 

She  rapped  on  the  door  with  her  knuckles,  but 
though  she  heard  some  sort  of  stir  within,  it  died 
away  and  nothing  happened.  She  waited  two  or 
three  minutes,  then  rang  the  bell,  and  now  was  certain 
that  she  could  hear  voices. 

Why  did  not  one  of  them  come  to  the  door  ? 
Probably  Pascoe  was  busy  packing,  probably,  too, 
on  this,  their  last  evening,  they  did  not  want  people 
to  drop  in. 

She  couldn't  help  that.  The  white  witch  had  told 
her  to  give  the  handkerchief  to  Pascoe,  and  she  would 
do  it.  She  rang  again,  and  in  the  silent  house  the 
bell  gave  out  a  hollow  reverberation.  They  did  not 
mean  to  let  her  in. 

For  a  moment  she  was  blindly  angry.  She  must 
see  Pascoe.  It  was  immensely  important.  Her 
future,  her  happiness,  hung  on  the  interview.  She 
must  reach  him,  tell  him  .  .  . 

Had  Mr.  Corlyon  seen  her  at  the  gate,  guessed  the 
reason  of  her  visit,  and  decided  that  she  should  not 
see  his  brother  ?  She  had  always  been  a  little  afraid 


THE  HAUNTING  73 

of  Mr.  Corlyon.  He  was  so  taciturn,  and  behind  his 
quietness,  his  smoothness,  was  a  strange  vitality. 
He  would  not  want  her  to  see  Pascoe.  Oh,  but  she 
must. 

She  stood  thinking.  No  one  about.  No  one  to  see 
what  she  did.  She  could  run  down  the  little  secret 
lane  till  she  reached  the  jutting  stones,  the  stones 
in  the  wall.  Pascoe  had  come  over  by  those  stones 
to  find  her  waiting  for  him  in  the  green  dusk,  and  she 
knew  exactly  where  they  were.  She  could  go  in  that 
way. 

She  must  give  him  the  handkerchief. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  tide  was  in,  and  as  the  Corlyons,  on  their  way 
home  from  Mrs.  Liddicoat's,  came  from  between  the 
walls  of  French  Street,  Gale  noticed  that  it  was  full, 
that  the  grey  water  was  lipping  the  quay-edge. 
A  man  coming  out  of  The  California,  meandered 
in  wide  curves  along  the  head  of  the  basin.  Nothing 
between  him  and  deep  water  .  .  .  easy  for  anyone, 
walking  near  the  edge,  to  slip  on  the  wet  granite  and 
overbalance  .  .  .  really,  it  was  a  wonder  that  more 
roysterers  did  not  come  by  a  liquid  end. 

He  glanced  at  Pascoe,  happy,  and  trolling  a  song. 
A  few  weeks  ago  he  had  been  at  the  sea's  mercy. 
But  Pascoe  could  swim  .  .  . 

Curious  the  luck  of  drunkards,  children,  and  those 
whom  the  gods  loved. 

Die  young  ?  Not  they  !  They  came  up  out  of  the 
sea,  escaped  the  perils  of  earth,  fire  and  water,  and 
returned  to  rob  and  harass  the  just.  Their  days  were 
long  in  the  land  ;  that  is  ... 

"  You  going  to  bed  ?  "  he  asked,  breaking  the 
silence  that  had  been  maintained  between  them  since 
Pascoe 's  seizure  of  the  money. 

"  I  believe  so."  He  watched  his  brother  turn  the 
large  key  in  the  door  lock.  Queer  old  stick,  had  he 
come  to  his  senses  ? 

"  I  want  you  for  a  minute."    He  lighted  the  candle 

74 


THE  HAUNTING  75 

that  stood  ready  on  the  hall  table,  and  led  the  way 
into  the  parlour.  "  You  are  really  going  back  to 
Jamaica  ?  " 

"  I  am." 

"  You  start  on  Sunday  ?  " 

"  That's  so."  He  thought  again  of  Jenifer's 
surprise,  and  a  smile  broadened  on  his  brown  and 
jolly  face.  "  You  might  write  and  tell  me  how  people 
take  it  when  they  know." 

"  You  haven't  told  anybody,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  a  soul." 

"  And  there  are  people  in  Stowe  .  .  .   ' 

"  One  or  two." 

"  Debts  ?  " 

"  No  doubt  they  think  I  owe  them  something,  but 
it  isn't  money." 

Amusing  to  hoodwink  people,  so  amusing  that  he 
trusted  old  Gale  would  forget  his  grievance  and  write. 

Going  to  his  desk  Mr.  Corlyon  took  out  a  paper. 
"  You  asked  me  to  have  the  house  valued." 

Pascoe's  smile  changed,  grew  keen.  "  Who  did 
it  for  us  ?  " 

"  Polkinghorn.  He  says  the  place  is  worth  about 
four  hundred  pounds." 

"  Four  hundred  ?  Quite  that,  if  not  more.  If 
Stowe  were  to  develop  it  would  be  a  valuable  site." 

"  Stowe  is  derelict,  the  Doom  Bar  has  spoiled  its 
chances.  No  shipping  of  any  size  will  ever  be  able 
to  get  into  the  harbour." 

"  A  few  mammoth  dredgers  would  make  short  work 
of  the  bar  and  this  is  the  only  harbour  west  side  of 
the  duchy.  Still — call  it  four  hundred." 

"  Having  no  money,  I  have  had  to  take  out  a  mort- 
gage on  the  house.  Here,"  he  pushed  four  fifty- 


76  THE  HAUNTING 

pound  notes  across  the  table,  "  here  is  your  share." 

Pascoe  picked  up  the  notes,  and  after  examining 
them,  bestowed  them  in  a  wallet.  "  Sorry  you  had 
to  do  that." 

Gale  cleared  his  throat.  "  There  is  another  matter," 
he  said,  his  face  straight  and  tense.  "  I've  come  to 
see  that  the  money  in  the  chest,  though  I  saved  it, 
does  belong  to  you,  Pascoe." 

For  a  moment  the  other  stared  doubtfully  ;  but 
the  confession  was  in  keeping  with  his  estimate  of 
Gale.  An  upright  and  scrupulous  man.  At  first  his 
love  of  money  had  been  too  strong  for  his  probity ; 
but  he  had  slept  on  the  matter,  had  come  to  see  that 
he  was  in  the  wrong.  After  all,  they  were  to  part 
friends.  "  That's  right."  In  return  he  must  show 
his  brother  they  were  on  the  old  footing.  "  Will 
you  lend  me  your  nag  to  take  me  to  the  coach, 
Sunday  ? " 

"  You  are  welcome  to  that  one." 

"  Henwood  can  bring  it  back." 

"  Yes,  surely."  Mr.  Corlyon  unfolded  the  paper 
he  had  taken  from  his  desk.  "  But  to  return  to  what 
I  was  saying.  You  have  taken  possession  of  the  money 
and  I  should  have  a  receipt  for  it.  Best,  though  we 
are  brothers,  to  have  black  upon  white." 

Pascoe  took  the  paper  and  read  it.  He  would  make 
sure  of  the  contents.  The  receipt  would  be  in  order, 
for  old  Gale  was  not  the  sort  to  try  and  cheat  you  ; 
still,  he,  Pascoe,  would  sign  nothing  that  he  had  not 
read. 

"  I,  Pascoe  Corlyon,  about  to  leave  Stowe  to  take 
up  residence  in  the  West  Indies,  hereby  declare  that 
my  half-brother,  Gale  Corlyon,  has  paid  over  all  the 


THE  HAUNTING  77 

moneys  belonging  to  me  which  were  in  his  hands, 
and  has  paid  his  share  of  Tre-fogou,  known  locally 
as  the  Brown  House,  and  I  hereby  give  him  full 
quittance. 

"(Signed)" 

Pascoe  tried  a  quill  on  his  nail,  dropped  it,  and 
took  up  another.  "  Wonder  how  I  shall  get  on  in 
McVitie's  counting  house,"  he  said.  "  I  make  a 
poor  fist  at  writing." 

He  wrote  his  name  in  full — "  Pascoe  Viall  Corlyon  " 
— across  the  stamp  of  the  receipt  and  added  the  date. 
"  If  you  like,"  he  said,  looking  up  as  he  handed  it 
back,  "  if  you  like  I  could  still  freight  you  goods  on 
commission — tobacco,  fruit,  whatever  I  got  hold  of." 
He  winked  at  Gale.  "  There  is  a  lot  more  comes  out 
of  Columbia  than  people  know  of,  and  you've  an  eye 
for  stones." 

Mr.  Corlyon  locked  the  papers  in  his  desk.  "  I'll 
think  about  it  ...  let  you  know." 

He  had  the  receipt.  If  any  questions  were  asked, 
he  had  it  to  show. 

But  who  should  ask  any — why  should  they  ? 

And  what  questions  ? 


ii 

On  Saturday  morning,  Pascoe,  making  purchases 
in  the  town,  had  noted  with  surprise  that  the  shutters 
of  the  baby-linen  shop  were  up.  Catley,  of  Bate  and 
Catley,  the  combined  grocer  and  drapery  stores,  said 
he  had  seen  Mrs.  and  Miss  Liddicoat  drive  off  in  Tubby 
Maddicott's  little  old  wagonnette,  and  as  they'd 
a  basket  of  food  with  them,  he  thought  they  would 


78  THE  HAUNTING 

be  gone  for  a  brave  little  while.  Astounding  that 
Mr.  Pascoe  didn't  know  of  it  ... 

Pascoe  was  in  agreement  with  Mr.  Catley.  He  cast 
back  over  the  talk  of  the  previous  evening,  but  could 
find  nothing  that  would  account  for  this  expedition. 
Whatever  the  reason,  ib  had  been  withheld,  and  this 
withholding  made  him  uneasy.  Did  they  know  any- 
thing ?  They  couldn't  know,  but  they  might  suspect. 
Jenifer  might  fancy  he  had  tried  to  avoid  her — as  he 
had.  She  might  think  he  had  not  played  the  lover 
convincingly — and  perhaps  he  hadn't.  She  was  a 
pretty  little  woman,  he  couldn't  run  away  from  that  ; 
but  he  didn't  care  for  her  now  ;  not  a  bit,  he  didn't, 
it  was  all  Grizel  with  him. 

Even  if  Jenifer  suspected  that  he  was  deceiving 
her  with  his  talk  of  marriage,  what  could  she  do  ? 
He  thought  uneasily  of  the  law.  But  if  the  promises 
a  man  made  when  he  was  courting  were  to  be  con- 
sidered binding  .  .  . 

He  reflected  with  a  sense  of  relief  that  men  made 
the  laws  ;  they  would  not  have  been  so  foolish  as 
to  make  such  promises  binding  .  .  .  they  would  know 
that  to  do  so  would  incriminate  all  who  ever  went 
courting  ...  all  the  race  of  men. 

He  was  back  at  the  Brown  House  in  time  for  the 
mid-day  dinner.  Gale,  who  had  not  been  out,  was 
sitting  in  the  armchair  by  the  fire,  and  Pascoe 
wondered  to  see  him  with  his  hands  idle. 

"  I  thought  you  were  such  a  busy  man." 

"  Sometimes  I  work  my  brain." 

"  On  other  people's  account  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  often  need  to  work  it  on  my  own."  He 
looked  at  Pascoe,  and  Pascoe  had  an  uneasy  feeling 
that  the  bright  dark  glance  had  passed  beyond  him, 


THE  HAUNTING  79 

that  it  was  focused  on  something  at  his  back.  He 
looked  over  his  shoulder.  Nothing  behind  him  but 
the  wall,  and  nothing  on  the  wall  but  a  few  curios, 
nothing  of  any  interest. 

"  The  Liddicoats  have  gone  driving,"  he  said, 
drawing  a  chair  to  the  table. 

"  So  Mrs.  Maddicott  told  me." 

"  She  been  here  ?  " 

"  Came  to  consult  me  about  an  investment.  She 
said  her  husband  was  driving  them  out  to  Springs." 

"  Springs  ?  " 

"  Stowe  gets  its  water  from  Springs." 

"  But  what  should  take  the  Liddicoats  there  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Liddicoat  said  she  wanted  a  wart  charmed." 
He  began  to  cut  the  beef. 

"  'Tis  late  in  the  day  for  that,  then." 

"  It  has  five  hairs  on  it — that  wart.  I  should  be 
glad  if  Elizabeth  Brenton  could  charm  it  away." 

"  But,"  Pascoe  had  thought  his  brother  was  a 
sceptic.  If  Gale  believed  in  the  power  of  charms,  it 
would  make  a  difference.  He  himself  was  by  no  means 
sure  .  .  . 

He  remembered  Isaiah  Quinion.  His  eyes  .  .  . 
so  black  and  strange  and  piercing.  People  said  he 
had  ill- wished  Tom  Jonas 's  best  horse,  and  when 
farmer  went  into  his  stable  the  following  day,  he  had 
found  it  dead  in  stall.  A  bad  man  to  cross,  Isaiah 
Quinion. 

If  Jenifer  knew  that  he,  Pascoe,  were  deceiving 
her,  would  she  have  him  ill-wished  ?  The  sea  lay 
between  him  and  Grizel  .  .  . 

"  Do  you  hold  with  charming  ?  "   Pascoe  asked. 

"  If  the  wart  drops  off  Morwenna  Liddicoat 's 
face » 


80  THE  HAUNTING 

"  Aw,  give  me  a  straight  answer,  can't  you  ?  " 
"  Do  I  hold  with  charming  ?     I  suppose  not,  and 
yet  .  .  .  the  truth  is  that  queer  things  do  happen  !  " 
His  memory  supplied  examples,  and  his  voice  was 
grave,  convinced.     "  I've  known  them  to." 


in 

As  Pascoe  understood  it,  you  could  not  ill-wish  a 
person  unless  you  set  eyes  on  them.  The  eye  had 
power,  and  if  he  did  not  see  Jenifer  again  .  .  .  yes, 
he  would  keep  out  of  her  way. 

He  would  finish  making  his  small  purchases,  the 
pretty  trifles  you  could  not  get  in  Kingston,  the 
ribbons,  veils,  and  fine  stockings  for  Grizel,  and  then 
he  would  stay  home.  After  all,  only  one  more  day. 

There  would  be  the  riding  through  Stowe  .  .  .  but 
no,  he  would  go  by  the  lane.  Horses  did  not  often 
traverse  it,  but  it  was  of  a  sufficient  width.  If 
necessary,  he  would  lead  the  nag. 

The  lane  went  up  behind  the  houses,  it  twisted 
among  the  gardens,  and  came  out  on  the  main  road 
by  Coulter's  Folly.  From  there,  nearly  a  straight 
line  to  Triggyveal  and  the  Plymouth  coach.  He  would 
not  be  quite  at  his  ease,  not  quite  comfortable  until 
he  were  aboard  ship.  To-day,  or  next  week,  or  next 
month,  hitherto  it  had  been  of  small  consequence 
when  he  should  start  on  a  fresh  voyage  ;  now,  he 
must  not  waste  a  day. 

Grizel  was  waiting.  Ah,  but  was  she  ?  He  was 
hers,  but  was  she  equally  his  ?  If  he  were  only  sure 
of  her. 

He  must  get  back.  Nothing  must  be  allowed  to 
delay  him,  nothing  .  .  .  nobody  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VII 


"  ANYTHING  special  you  want  to  do,  Gale  ?  " 

Sunday  morning,  and  the  people  were  thronging  to 
church  and  chapel,  but  Mr.  Corlyon  did  not  like 
services.  For  him  a  book,  or  a  walk  through  the 
fogou  to  the  sea.  For  one  day  in  the  week  it  was 
pleasant  to  put  the  business  of  Stowe  from  off  his 
shoulders  ;  indulge  himself  with  a  look  at  hidden 
treasure. 

"Church  ...  or  is  it  chapel?"  The  place  of 
worship  Pascoe  patronized  was  decided  for  him  by  the 
sweetheart  of  the  moment,  or  by  the  wish  to  avoid 
her  of  yesterday. 

"  'Tis  neither."  Meet  Jenifer  on  the  streets  ? 
Not  he.  "I'm  not  going  out." 

Mr.  Corlyon  put  a  marker  between  the  pages  of  the 
Vestiges  of  Creation.  Before  Pascoe  came  home  he 
had  found  it  an  absorbing  book,  now  his  attention 
wandered.  He  read  and  found  he  had  gathered 
nothing  but  words.  "  Well  ?  " 

"  Tide's  out."  Pascoe  glanced  at  the  slipways,  at 
the  grey  mud  of  the  harbour,  and  yawned.  This  last 
day  was  passing  slowly.  If  he  could  only  have 
ventured  into  the  streets,  had  a  talk  with  this  man 
and  that,  gathered  the  news.  He  must  do  something. 
"  Believe  I'd  like  to  see  the  fogou  again.  You've 
the  key.  What  do  you  say  to  going  down  ?  " 

81 
F 


82  THE  HAUNTING 

Said  Mr.  Corlyon  in  his  deliberate  voice  :  "As  good 
a  way  as  any  of  wasting  time." 

"  Come  on  then."  Fresh  air  and  sea  were  at  the 
end  of  the  fogou,  and  that  would  be  better  than 
sticking  in  the  house  with  nothing  to  do. 

The  brothers,  Mr.  Corlyon  carrying  the  lanthorn, 
went  single  file  down  the  stairs,  through  the  damp  and 
mossy  cellar,  into  the  cave.  The  lanthorn  was  half 
shuttered.  The  man  who  held  it  did  not  want  its 
beam  to  fall  on  the  empty  chest  of  which  he  was 
unhappily  conscious.  He  would  keep  his  mind  like 
the  lanthorn.  He  would  not  think  of  the  hours  he 
had  spent  in  this  hollow  of  the  rocks  ;  of  that  old, 
now  lost  security  ;  of  the  years,  peaceful,  quiet ; 
the  years  that  had  flowed  softly  like  a  stream,  flowed 
away  and  sunk  into  the  good  earth. 

He  might  forget  them,  if,  like  the  candle -beam,  he 
threw  his  mind  forward,  if  he  thought  of  the  fogou, 
that  snake  twisting  into  the  solid  hill,  thrusting 
through  into  a  sea-cave,  into  the  light  and  colour 
beyond. 

The  brothers  took  the  passage  with  feet  to  which 
the  way  was  familiar.  To  the  west  of  Stowe  lay  cliffs 
and  the  sea  ;  and  the  fogou,  yielding  to  the  inequali- 
ties of  the  strata,  yet  contrived  a  westerly  course. 
After  they  had  traversed  a  few  hundred  yards,  the 
blackness  began  to  thin,  and  the  dull  booming  of 
the  sea  broke  into  recognizable  sound.  They  were 
nearing  the  exit,  and  Mr.  Corlyon,  thinking  his  secret 
thoughts,  had  almost  forgotten  Pascoe  was  at  his 
heels  when  the  latter  spoke.  "  Didn't  you  tell  me  a 
bit's  fallen  in  ?  " 

The  walls  of  the  passage  had  suddenly  slipped 
away  on  either  side,  and  Mr.  Corlyon,  pushing  back 


THE   HAUNTING  83 

the  lanthorn  shutters,  let  out  a  roundness  of  light. 
They  were  in  a  low  cavern,  the  floor  of  which  was 
littered  with  debris  of  wreck-wood,  rotting  cordage, 
and  old  iron.  A  faint  light,  entering  at  one  side, 
fell  on  the  polished  surface  of  a  pool,  beyond  which, 
heaped  and  uneven,  lay  earth  and  quartz  and  broken 
crystal.  Pascoe  strode  towards  it,  and  Mr.  Corlyon, 
swinging  up  the  lanthorn,  searched  the  roof.  The 
crevice,  a  jagged  velvet -black  cut  in  the  rock  surface, 
was  easily  found. 

"  'Tis  some  wide,"  said  Pascoe.  The  water  filtering 
through  the  strata,  filtering  through  unceasingly, 
and  year  after  year,  had  washed  away  the  soft  earth, 
loosened  the  seam  of  quartz,  the  crystals.  If  man 
did  not  shore  up  the  strata,  more  quartz,  more  crystals 
must  inevitably  fall,  and,  in  the  end,  the  rock  cave  in. 

Mr.  Corlyon  pointed  to  the  passage,  not  more  than 
eighteen  inches  wide,  that  led  out  into  the  daylight. 
Turning  sharply  right,  then  left,  it  was  not  more 
than  four  feet  long.  "  Two  or  three  middling  stones, 
and  this  would  be  walled  up." 

Many  a  little  bale  of  goods  had  come  into  Stowe 
by  way  of  the  fogou.  Pascoe  thought  of  moonless 
nights  when  he  had  carried  tobacco,  wine,  scent. 

Never  again. 

He  was  going  to  settle  down  with  Grizel,  with  the 
woman  he  ached  for  ;  he  was  going  to  be  law-abiding, 
prosperous,  but  he  would  miss  the  moonless  nights 
and  the  risks — taken  as  much  for  the  fiery  joy  of 
them  as  for  the  easy  money. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  it  don't  much  matter  .  .  .  now. 
You'll  have  no  use  for  it,  and  it  was  bound  to  come 
down  sooner  or  later." 

In  Mr,  Corlyon's  heart  the  new  wonder  moved. 


84  THE  HAUNTING 

Pascoe  had  no  natural  affection  ;  he  had  been  willing 
the  old  house  should  be  sold,  should  become  the 
abiding  place  of  strangers,  and  now  the  fogou  .  .  . 

He  must  believe  that  to  Pascoe  it  was  not  the 
romantic  and  mysterious  possession,  the  strange 
secret  because  of  which  they  were  different  from  the 
other  people  in  Stowe,  the  people  of  the  surface  .  .  . 
it  was  simply  a  passage. 

Having  no  further  use  for  it,  he  was  willing  the 
sides  should  cave  in,  the  roof  fall,  and  the  fogou  .  .  . 
this  old  human  runway  from  the  cove  to  the  harbour 
.  .  .  the  fogou,  should  cease  to  be. 

It  made  a  man  feel  queasy  !  "  Let  us  go  on.  I 
want  to  get  out,  to  get  into  the  air." 

Pascoe  glanced  at  the  tall  lean  figure.  Was  Gale 
annoyed  with  him  ?  He  ought,  perhaps,  to  have 
shown  more  interest ;  but  he  did  not  feel  any.  Feel 
an  interest  in  a  mouldy  old  passage,  slippery  with 
sea-damp,  and  of  no  further  use  ? 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  good-naturedly,  "  it  takes 
rather  a  long  time  for  a  thing  to  go  to  pieces,  and 
when  I  come  back,  I'll  help  you  shore  up  the  rock." 
He  kicked  at  the  stones  and  earth  heaped  under  the 
crevice.  "  As  yet  there  is  not  enough  fallen  to  bury 
a  dog." 

Mr.  Corlyon  had  stepped  into  the  narrow  passage 
that  led  to  the  light ;  but,  at  Pascoe's  words,  he  came 
back,  and  raising  the  lanthorn,  peered  at  the  crevice. 

"  Not  enough  to  bury  a  dog,"  he  said.  "  Ah,  but 
look,  there's  plenty  more  ready  to  come.  Oh  yes 
.  .  .  enough  .  .  .  ' 


THE  HAUNTING  85 

ii 

"  When  you  come  back,  Pascoe  ?" 

"  I  shall  come,  you  see  if  I  don't." 

"  Don't  make  too  sure." 

"  When  a  chap  wants  to  come  back,  he  comes." 

"  You  think  you'll  want  to  come  ?  " 

"  Certain  sure  I  shall." 

The  greyness  of  the  cavern  had  changed  to  daylight 
as  the  brothers,  following  the  narrow  passage  that 
masked  the  entrance  to  the  fogou,  stepped  into  a  little 
cave. 

"  Seeing  is  believing,"  Gale  remarked.  The  cave, 
through  an  opening  over  which  hung  trails  of  green 
weed,  gave  on  to  a  small  sandy  cove,  landlocked, 
and  only  used  by  an  occasional  bather. 

"  Don't  you  fret.  You'll  see  me  perhaps  sooner 
than  you  think." 

"Well,  if  you  come" — Gale  felt  his  smile  like  a 
stiffness  on  his  face,  "  you — you'll  be  welcome  !  " 

"  Not  a  long  voyage  from  Jamaica." 

"  No  .  .  .  not  from  Jamaica." 

The  sun,  now  setting,  shot  a  beam  between  the 
trails  of  weed,  and  filled  the  cave  with  reflections  of 
dimpled  and  dancing  waters. 

A  stream,  trickling  through  the  strata,  spreading 
over  the  slopes  of  dark  grey  rock,  had  left  a  velvety 
deposit,  and  this  deposit  was  coloured.  In  the  main, 
it  was  crimson,  every  shade  of  crimson  from  faintest 
carmine  to  blood-red,  but  parts  were  a  bright  yellow, 
others  green,  others  a  metallic  peacock.  In  one  corner 
the  drip  had  hollowed  a  basin,  a  basin  lined  with 
very  pale  rose,  a  rose  that  flowed  over  the  edge,  that 
made  a  broad  ribbon  of  colour  down  the  slope. 


86  THE  HAUNTING 

The  sun  shaft,  falling  on  the  water  in  this  basin, 
water  for  ever  troubled  by  the  drip,  had  flung  motes 
of  rich  light  over  roof  and  walls.  Mr.  Corlyon  drew 
his  breath  sharply,  and  stood  looking.  He  delighted 
in  warm  bright  colour,  and  this  rainbow  gave  him 
excessive,  almost  passionate  pleasure.  It  was  the 
strange  and  lovely  ending  to  the  mysterious  fogou, 
it  was  his  "  secret  heaven  of  flowered  delight." 

Curving  a  long  slender  hand,  he  cupped  a  little 
water  in  the  hollow  of  it  and  drank.  A  ritual  that. 
By  drinking  he  took  possession,  every  time,  of  this 
place  which  was  his.  Afterwards  he  would  glance  at 
the  sand  to  see  if  any  had  profaned  its  smoothness. 
At  high  tide  the  cave  was  under  water,  water  that 
slipped  through  the  narrow  passage  to  freshen  the 
black  and  polished  pool  of  the  cavern,  water  that 
drowned  the  warm  colour,  and  shut  out  the  light. 
When  he  was  sitting  over  a  book  in  the  brown  parlour, 
and  the  tide  was  lipping  the  quayside,  he  would  think 
of  the  far  cave  at  the  end  of  the  fogou,  of  its  renewal 
under  the  insidious  creeping  or  storm  turmoil  of  the 
waves  ;  he  would  feel  that  the  waters  guarded  it 
for  him  against  intrusion,  kept  it  secret  .  .  .  safe. 

Pascoe,  whistling,  and  without  a  glance  for  what  he 
termed  "  a  parcel  of  muck,"  had  walked  through  the 
rainbow  cave.  His  prints  were  clear  on  the  ribbed 
sand,  and  Mr.  Corlyon  saw  them  with  displeasure 
.  .  .  the  broad,  rather  deep  tread. 

Before  long  the  tide  would  turn,  would  flow  over 
and  dissolve  the  sharp  outlines. 

With  Pascoe  gone — like  the  footprints — only  he, 
Gale,  would  know  of  the  fogou's  existence. 


THE  HAUNTING  87 

in 

Pascoe,  stepping  out  of  the  cave,  had  walked  round 
the  great  rock  which  yet  further  masked  the  orifice 
in  the  cliff -face.  The  tide  was  a  sheet  of  silver,  the 
westerly  sun  was  blinding  silver,  and  the  gulls  on  the 
sea -edge  were  like  strung  balls  of  dull  gleaming  silver. 
Pascoe,  looking  at  the  home  scene,  reflected  that 
between  him  and  Grizel  was  only  this  gulf  of  waters, 
this  herring-pond.  A  few  more  hours,  and  he  would 
have  pushed  off  from  the  shore,  and  with  his  money 
.  .  .  ah,  now,  which  would  be  best — to  keep  it  in  his 
ditty  box,  or  give  the  captam  charge  of  it  ?  He  knew 
the  captain,  a  straight  man,  and  of  course  he,  Pascoe, 
would  have  a  receipt.  But  to  hand  it  over  would  mean 
an  explanation,  and  he  disliked  talking  about  business, 
about  his  personal  private  business.  No,  on  the  whole, 
the  ditty  box  would  serve  his  purpose  best.  Pity 
he  had  not  more  notes  ;  but  was  it  ?  Bullion  was 
money,  but  notes  were  only  paper.  He  remembered 
that  in  Cartagena  ten-dollar  notes  were  worth  only 
a  few  pence  ;  and  for  all  he  knew,  English  bank  notes 
might  suffer  a  like  depreciation  in  Jamaica.  He  wished 
he  had  asked  McVitie  about  it.  A  shrewd  man, 
McVitie. 

Mr.  Corlyon,  glancing  at  the  short  thick  figure, 
with  its  stare  that  crossed  a  world,  felt  that  Pascoe's 
thoughts  had  become  agonizingly  easy  to  read. 
With  the  plunder  in  his  sack  he  was  waiting 
impatiently  for  the  moment  when  he  could  throw  it 
over  his  shoulder  and  be  off  ... 

"  Dog  does  not  eat  dog  "  —but  this  dog  was  so  vile 
he  had  turned  on  his  own  flesh  and  blood  ! 

Still,  there  was  a  limit  to  human  endurance,  and 


88  THE  HAUNTING 

Pascoe,    in   wronging   Gale,    had    overstepped   that 
limit. 

No  one  should  take  from  Gale  that  to  which  he 
had  a  right. 

IV 

The  figure  by  the  rim  of  silver  embodied  a  lost 
illusion,  and  Mr.  Corlyon  turned  from  the  contempla- 
tion of  it.  For  three  nights  and  three  days  he  had 
been  concentrated  on  the  problem  of  Pascoe.  He 
knew,  at  last,  what  he  would  do,  and  he  was  at  peace  ; 
but  he  did  not  want  to  look  at  or  think  of  him. 
Sufficient  unto  the  hour  ... 

Crossing  the  belt  of  sand,  he  stood  under  the  Dragon 
Rock,  looking  up.  The  crest  of  the  great  stone  had 
been  worn  by  weather  into  a  shape  which,  to  human 
fancy,  had  suggested  a  beast.  Shaggy  with  weed, 
it  lay  along  the  flat  top,  the  face  leaning  forward, 
the  anticipatory  lips  slightly  apart.  When  the  tide 
was  high,  Mr.  Corlyon,  sitting  up- over  on  the  cliffs, 
had  seen  a  slaver  of  white  spume  drip  from  the  jaws. 

Was  that  what  dragons  had  been  like  ?  Rough 
scaly  creatures  of  huge  dimensions  ?  Had  they  lain 
in  wait  for  their  prey  on  some  rock  coloured  like 
themselves,  and  had  they  leaped  down  .  .  . 

Crevices  in  the  grey  stone  gave  the  dragon  an 
appearance  of  deep  obliquely-set  eyes.  A  queer 
enough  creature  .  .  .  made,  not  by  man,  and  not  by 
God.  The  battering  of  storm,  the  grinding  of  the 
seas,  and  a  rock.  That  was  all,  and  from  that  had 
come,  at  first  dimly,  the  monstrous  outline  of  head, 
of  back,  of  tail.  With  the  passage  of  time  the  shape 
had  grown  more  definite,  until,  at  last,  the  tiny 
generations  of  man  had  perceived  it,  given  it  a  name. 


THE  HAUNTING  89 

It  seemed  almost  as  if,  from  being  mere  rock  it  had 
developed  a  sort  of  life,  as  if  it  had  being. 

Mr.  Corlyon's  thoughts  turned  to  his  book — to  the 
Vestiges  of  Creation.  Perhaps  weather  and  fortuitous 
circumstances  such  as  had  made  the  dragon,  were 
responsible  for  the  far-off  beginnings  of  life. 

A  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  he  started,  threw  it  off. 

"  Oh,  Pascoe,  you  ?     I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  Time's  getting  on.  I  ought  to  be  putting  my 
traps  together." 

"  We'll  go  back." 

As  they  walked  to  the  cave,  Mr.  Corlyon  glanced 
back,  glanced  at  the  rock. 

The  dragon's  face  was  turned  towards  the  land, 
towards  the  green  and  black  wall  of  the  cliff.  Long 
ago,  fancy  had  suggested  a  connection  between  the 
fogou,  the  pre-historic  passage  which  man,  with 
astonishing  assiduity,  had  driven  through  the  hill, 
and  the  monstrous  beast.  The  old  thought  returned. 
He  felt  that  on  its  rock  the  dragon  lay  waiting  for 
prey,  for  something  coming  to  it  by  way  of  the  fogou. 
It  had  knowledge  and  desire,  and  it  would  not  wait 
in  vain.  Something  was  coming,  not  from  the  sea, 
but  from  the  habitations  of  man  . 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE  brothers  traversed  the  sea-cave,  the  long  dark 
curves  of  the  fogou,  the  slant,  with  man-made  hand- 
holds— man-made,  how  long  ago  ? — to  the  door. 
In  the  rock-cave  Mr.  Corlyon,  crossing  to  a  recess  in 
the  wall,  had  selected  wine. 

"  The  last  of  poor  old  father's  bottling.  It  was 
being  kept  for  your  wedding,  so  it's  as  well  to  drink 
it  now." 

Pascoe  had  eyed  the  cobwebby  bottles.  "  To  wish 
me  a  safe  journey  from  the  old  home  to  the  new  ?  " 
It  would  be  jolly  on  his  last  evening  to  have  a  hideful 
of  the  best,  to  have  his  whack.  He  must  be  careful 
though,  he  mustn't  risk  losing  the  use  of  his  legs. 

"  That  will  be  it,"  Gale  had  answered  sedately,  and 
Pascoe  had  passed  him,  running  up  the  stair. 

"I'll  put  my  traps  together,  and  then  we  can  have 
supper." 

"  Ah,  yes,  your  traps."  When  a  man  went  to  the 
West  Indies  he  took  with  him  all  that  was  his.  You 
had  to  bear  that  in  mind.  His  dunnage,  heavy  with 
another  man's  gold  ;  the  light  packages  for  Grizel  ; 
his  boots,  cap,  sailor-rig.  When  a  man  went,  these 
things  went  too. 

ii 

In  the  parlour,  Mr.  Corlyon  was  decanting  wine. 
His  long  fine  hands  adjusted  the  funnel,  he  watched 

90 


THE   HAUNTING  91 

the  dark  fluid  spreading  over  the  bulge  of  the  wine 
bottle.  When  the  decanter  was  quite  full  he  stoppered  it. 

How  much  would  Pascoe  drink  ?  The  mellow  old 
stuff  would  slip  down  easy  as  milk,  yes,  and  one  glass 
leads  to  another.  He  must  have  plenty  and  then — 
the  one  glass  more. 

Mr.  Corlyon  took  a  knife  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
tried  the  edge  of  the  blade.  It  cut  the  skin  of  his 
thumb.  Tut-*~he  must  be  careful. 

Overhead  the  creaking  of  boards.  Pascoe  had  asked 
for  his  share  of  the  furniture,  and  Gale  had  agreed 
that  he  should  have  it.  It  should  follow  him  out, 
be  forwarded  by  cargo  boat.  He  was  in  his  brother's 
room  at  the  moment  making  a  careful  list  of  the 
pieces  of  furniture  that  he  would  have.  It  went 
without  saying  that  he  had  chosen  the  best. 

Mr.  Corlyon  hearkened  to  that  careless  tread. 
He  understood  that  Pascoe,  stripping  the  nest,  was 
examining  the  various  twigs  and  feathers.  Money, 
house,  ay,  even  the  lining  of  the  house. 

He  returned  to  his  decanting.  It  would  not  do  to 
linger.  At  any  moment  Pascoe  might  come  down. 
He  would  come  dragging  that  heavy  dunnage, 
clamouring  for  supper,  for  a  drink. 

Gale  Corlyon  placed  a  half-emptied  bottle  on  the 
sideboard,  got  out  a  small  deeply-cut  flagon,  and 
turned.  Before  him,  a  darker  brown  than  the  wall 
paper,  hung  the  head-hunter's  spear  with,  above  it, 
the  quiver  and  bunch  of  pigmy  arrows. 

Outside  help,  that  is  to  say  the  law,  could  not  be 
invoked,  for  law  was  not  justice  ;  the  spear  could 
only  be  used  when  the  odds  were  even,  when  it  was 
a  case  of  man  to  man.  Mr.  Corlyon  took  down  the 
arrows. 


92  THE  HAUNTING 

If  he  were  to  steep  the  points  in  the  wine  of  that 
one  glass  more  ? 

It  would  take  the  poison  better  if  it  were  warmed. 
He  got  out  the  old  mulling  horn,  filled  it,  and  set  it 
in  a  red  hollow  of  turf. 

With  the  fine  blade  of  his  knife  he  pared  the  tiny 
points  of  the  arrows.  Almost  invisible  curls  of  dark 
dry  wood  fell  into  the  wine.  The  tiny  shreds  floated 
for  a  moment  on  the  bubbling  turmoil,  but  as  the 
wine  soaked  into  them  they  sank  and  disappeared. 

In  his  room,  looking  up  the  street,  Pascoe  was 
singing  a  chanty.  He  was  packing  and  singing.  Yes, 
though  he  had  taken  his  brother's  savings,  the  savings 
of  a  lifetime,  he  could  sing. 

No  heart,  nor  even  any  bowels  of  compassion. 
Mr.  Corlyon  hung  the  bunch  of  pigmy  arrows,  quiver 
and  arrows,  on  the  wall  over  the  head-hunter's  spear 
.  .  .  stood  back  to  survey  them.  The  pared  edges 
.  .  .  were  they  a  lighter  brown  ?  Not  much  lighter, 
but  still  .  .  . 

He  took  them  from  the  nail,  and  as  he  lifted  the 
mulling  horn,  dropped  them  into  the  fire.  They 
crackled  and  flamed  and  spat,  dry  things  but  potent 
...  no  longer  potent. 

Bane  for  a  rat. 

The  flames  died,  and  a  little  grey  ash  filmed  the 
glow.  Gale  Corlyon  would  do  justice,  and  be 
responsible  for  it  to  whatever — whoever — was  res- 
ponsible for  the  making  of  such  as  Pascoe.  He 
poured  the  cooling  fluid  into  the  crystal  flagon. 
Was  the  wine  a  little  thick  ?  Give  it  time,  and  the 
sediment  would  settle. 

The  chanty  had  grown  louder.  Pascoe,  carrying 
his  dunnage,  was  coming  down. 


THE   HAUNTING  93 

"  Put  it  out  of  the  way — along  the  passage." 

"I'll  put  it  at  the  head  of  the  cellar  stairs." 

"  The  cellar  stairs  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  out  by  the  back  door.  I  don't  want 
to  meet  .  .  .  people."  He  came  into  the  parlour. 
"  Supper  ready  ?  " 

"  I  told  Antiks  to  lay  it  in  the  kitchen  to-night. 
Warmer  there." 

"  But  she- 

"  Oh,  she's  gone.     'Tis  Sunday,  man." 

Pascoe  laughed.  "  To  me  'tis  the  day  I  start  for 
the  West  Indies.  Why,  hullo  .  .  .  " 

He  was  staring  at  a  lightness  on  the  brown  of  the 
wall,  a  small  pale  oblong.  "  My  curio  .  .  .  what  has 
happened  to  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Corlyon  turning,  perceived  that  the  absence 
of  the  arrows  was  more  noticeable  than  would  have 
been  those  slight  small  marks  of  the  knife.  "  That  ? 
What  was  it  ?  Oh,  I  remember — yes — Antiks  com- 
plained of  it  getting  dirty.  She  was  always  catching 
her  duster  in  it  and  pulling  it  down.  I  let  her  burn 
it.  Do  you  mind  ?  " 

"  Dunno  as  I  do.  A  scratch  from  one  of  those 
pin-points,  and  you'd  find  yourself  in  Kingdom  Come. 
A  parcel  of  muck,  it  was  best  out  of  the  way." 

"  I  ought  to  have  given  the  arrows  back  to  you," 
said  Mr.  Corlyon,  smoothly,  "  let  you  take  them  with 
you.5> 

Pascoe  looked  at  the  other  curios  on  the  wall. 
"  I  forgot  about  these,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  or — no,  I 
haven't  room  for  another  thing.  Well,  see  here,  Gale, 
they'd  look  as  well  on  my  wall  as  on  yours.  You 
might  pack  them  in  with  the  furniture  you  are  freight- 
ing me." 


94  THE   HAUNTING 

"  What  you  don't  take  with  you,"  answered  Mr. 
Corlyon,  "  I  will  send." 


in 

The  brothers  sat  at  supper  in  the  kitchen.  "  'Tis 
pretty  good  wine,"  Pascoe  said,  "  this  all  you  got  ?  " 

"  There's  a  drop  more  in  the  other  room." 

"  When  we've  drinked  this,  we'll  have  it  in  to  finish 
up,  and  then  I  must  be  going." 

Mr.  Corlyon  was  curious.  Why  was  Pascoe  going 
out  the  back  way  ?  Who  was  it  he  did  not  wish  to 
meet  ?  Hitherto,  he  had  come  and  gone  openly, 
daringly.  "  You  are  going  up  the  back  lane  ?  " 

"  Best  get  off  quickly,"  Pascoe  said,  "  some  women 
are  jealous  as  fire." 

But  Stowe  was  full  of  women  "  jealous  as  fire," 
and  hitherto  Pascoe  had  not  cared.  Mr.  Corlyon  was 
puzzled.  He  looked  thoughtfully  at  his  brother ; 
and  Pascoe,  warmed,  a  little  bemused  by  the  wine, 
felt  the  look  as  if  it,  and  the  curiosity  behind  it,  had 
been  tangible. 

He  was  not  going  to  own  up  that  he  was  afraid  of 
being  ill-wished.  Gale  would  laugh  .  .  . 

"  I  didn't  tell  Jenifer  I  was  going." 

He  was  through  with  Jenifer,  yet,  for  some  reason, 
was  anxious  not  to  meet  her.  Mr.  Corlyon 's  mind 
groped  for  the  reason.  Pascoe  was  not  scrupulous, 
not  easily  put  about. 

"  What  is  Jenifer  to  you  ?  " 

*'  She  isn't  nothing  to  me." 

Mr.  Corlyon  had  an  itch  to  know.  Pascoe  had  made 
casual  love  to  half  the  women  in  Stowe.  He  had 
flirted  with  Jenifer  as  with  the  others  ...  a  matter 


THE   HAUNTING  95 

of  course,  as  she  was  such  a  pretty  maid.  The  ques- 
tions, why  Pascoe  was  afraid  of  Stowe  streets,  and 
whether  Jenifer  cared,  really  cared  for  him,,  clashed 
in  Mr.  Corlyon's  mind.  Pascoe  had  been  away  some 
time.  What  had  happened  before  he  left  ?  The  two 
had  spent  the  last  day  at  Lewhidden,  blackberry 
picking  in  the  quarry.  Had  matters  come  to  a  head 
then  ?  Was  there,  perhaps,  a  promise  between  them  ? 

He  must  know  how  they  stood  to  each  other,  and 
with  Pascoe  half  drunk  it  should  not  be  difficult. 

"  Anyway,"  he  said,  musingly,  "  you  have  been 
away  some  time,  three  months  gone —  He  had 

been  going  to  say,  "  gone  out  of  this,"  when  Pascoe 
took  him  up. 

The  wine  was  going  to  Pascoe 's  head.  He  had  not 
quite  followed  what  his  brother  was  saying,  had  a 
bemused  idea  it  was  about  Jenifer.  "  Three  months 
gone  ?  "  He  shivered.  "  Don't  say  that." 

His  eyes  were  lifted  to  his  brother's.  He  saw  on 
the  face  opposite  a  sudden  flash  .  .  .  incredulity, 
horror.  It  struck  through  the  fumes.  Pushing  his 
chair  back,  he  broke  into  a  laugh.  "  You  mazed 
old  rattle,  why  don't  you  say  what  you  mean  ? 
Jenifer's  no  more  to  me  than  any  other  body.  'Tis 
Grizel's  my  maid." 

Mr.  Corlyon's  tongue  was  dry.  "  You  said  three 
months  ..." 

"  I  meant— Grizel." 

"  Well,  then- 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  now,"  he  reached  for  his  glass. 
"  Didn't  know  I'd  drinked  this."  He  glanced 
suspiciously  at  his  brother,  surely  it  had  been  full 
but  a  moment  since.  And  the  wine-bottle  was  empty. 
Old  Gale  had  more,  yes,  in  the  dining-room,  He  was 


96  THE  HAUNTING 

hoarding  it,  as  he  had  hoarded  the  money  ;  and 
Pascoe's  throat  was  sand  dry.  "  Let's  have  in  the 
rest." 

"  You've  had  nearly  enough." 

"  I've  a  thirst  on  me  that  could  drink  a  barrel. 
So  come  now,  let  us  finish  the  wine." 

The  other  got  up  slowly.  "  'Tis  the  lees  and  a  bit 
thick." 

"  Want  to  keep  it  for  yourself,  eh  ?  " 

"  You  have  had  everything  for  which  you  asked  ; 
you  shall  have  this,  too."  Would  the  wine  be  cool 
enough  to  pass  muster  ?  He  fetched  the  little  flagon  ; 
yes  .  .  .  nearly  cold. 

Leaning  over  the  table,  he  filled  his  brother's  glass, 
and  Pascoe,  lifting  it,  held  it  between  his  eye  and  the 
light.  "  Good,"  he  said,  "  good  !  Some  body  in 
this  wine." 

"  Take  care,  or  you'll  spill  it." 

"I'll  spill  it  down  my  throat." 

Mr.  Corlyon  raised  his  own  to  set  stiff  lips.  "  Here's 
good  luck,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  IX 


PASCOE,  putting  the  glass  to  his  lips,  began  to  gulp 
the  wine.  Not  much  fun  plucking  old  Gale.  Feather 
after  feather,  and  he  made  no  protest.  Pascoe  had 
not  thought  the  man  was  so  tame.  He  wondered, 
dizzily,  whether  he  had  overlooked  any  bits  of  pro- 
perty— money,  land — for  which  he  might  have 
asked. 

The  kitchen  being  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and 
its  window  looking  down  the  garden,  the  brothers 
were  as  snug  as  if  they  had  been  in  the  fogou,  with 
the  thick  hill  between  them  and  Stowe.  The  world 
outside  was  busy  with  its  churches  and  chapels  ; 
and  the  earth  went  round,  the  folks  on  it,  like  maggots 
in  their  nuts,  busy  and  self-absorbed. 

In  this  house,  at  this  supper  table,  was  the  sound 
of  Pascoe  drinking. 

Mr.  Corlyon's  ears  gathered  the  uncouth  sound. 
His  body  was  numb,  only  one  sense,  that  of  hearing, 
was  alert  in  him. 

Suddenly,  shattering  his  content,  pulling  him  back, 
a  different  sound — the  rapping,  the  sharp  rapping 
of  knuckles  on  a  door.  He  turned  in  swift  terror. 
Not  the  door  of  their  room  .  . .  No,  further  away  .  .  . 
a  knocking  ...  it  was  on  the  panels  of  the  front  door. 

-Someone  was  near  .  .  .  was  trying  to  join  them. 
His  security  fell  about  him  like  splintered  glass.  Not 

97 
G 


98  THE   HAUNTING 

every  person  in  Stowe  was  occupied  with  his  own 
concerns,  his  feeding,  and  sweethearting,  and  chapel- 
going.  The  minds  of  some — of  one,  or  perhaps  two 
— were  turned  towards  himself  and  Pascoe  ;  and  these 
minds,  they  would  be  interested,  curious.  Of  a  sudden 
the  house-walls — walls  of  country  stone — became  to 
him  as  a  curtain  which  at  any  moment  might  be  blown 
aside. 

These  people— they  might  turn  the  knob  of  the  door 
and,  secure  of  a  welcome,  come  shouting  down  the 
passage,  "  Corlyon  !  Corlyon  !  "  With  a  friendliness 
that  would  presently  change,  they  might  blunder 
in  on — he  glanced  through  the  firelit  dusk  at  Pascoe, 
at  the  red-brown  face,  greasy  with  food  and  the  heat 
of  the  room.  God — they  must  not  get  in  !  Why  had 
he  not  thought  to  lock  the  door  after  Antiks  ?  Every- 
thing but  that,  and  that  would  bring  his  plans  about 
his  ears. 

Should  he  steal  out  now  and  turn  the  key  ?  Would 
Pascoe  notice  ?  If  he  were  to  ...  if  he  asked 
questions  ?  Better  perhaps  to  leave  it  be. 

Under  the  table  Mr.  Corlyon  locked  his  hands  to- 
gether, holding  on  to  himself,  to  that  fierce  longing  to 
stride  out,  interrogate  the  intruders,  drive  them  away. 

A  wineglass  was  set  down  clumsily.  The  knocking 
on  the  door-panel  had  reached  Pascoe's  brain.  He 
looked  up,  startled.  "  'Tis  Jenifer,"  he  said,  and  he 
leaned  over  the  table  speaking  as  if  he  thought  she 
might  hear.  "  She  has  got  light  of  my  going  but,"  his 
voice  was  a  fierce  whisper,  "  but  I  won't  see  her. 
Don't  you — don't  you  dare  let  her  in  on  me." 

Gale  fell  back  in  his  chair.  Jenifer — she — at  this 
moment  ?  Yet  he  could  see  the  links  in  the  chain. 
He  had  told  her  mother  and  the  maid  had  felt  she 


THE  HAUNTING  99 

must  speak  with  Pascoe.     But,  of  all  people  in  the 
world,  Jenifer. 

He  passed  his  tongue  over  dry  lips.     "  Well ' 

"  Aw leave  her  knock." 

A  bell  rang,  rang  sharply  and  for  a  long  time.  The 
iron  clangour  broke  out  on  the  beam  over  Mr.  Cor- 
lyon's  head ;  and  Pascoe  gaped,  in  quick  fear,  at  the 
moving  blackness.  The  sweat  stood  in  beads  on  his 
hot  face  and  yet  he  shivered.  The  woman  on  the 
other  side  of  that  frail  door  was  urgent  and  her  urgency 
was  crying  to  him  through  the  bell. 

Mr.  Corlyon  knotted  his  hands  yet  more  desperately. 
So  difficult  to  sit  there,  to  sit  quietly,  to  look  uncon- 
cerned. 

"  Afraid  of  this  all  day,"  Pascoe  muttered.  "  She'd 
get  me  if  she  could."  He  startled  his  brother  by 
breaking  suddenly  into  a  low  chuckle,  "  but — but 
she  can't  get  in." 

"  Can't  get  in  ?  " 

"  I  saw  to  it  the  front  door  was  locked."  The  old 
jolly  smile  had  come  back,  was  curving  his  full  mouth. 
After  all  he  had  bested  her.  Another  hour  and  he 
would  be  gone  and  Jenifer  would  not  have  been  able 
to  ill-wish  him. 

Mr.  Corlyon's  grasp  of  himself  relaxed.  She  could 
not  get  through  a  locked  door. 

The  bell  rang  again,  a  long  desperate  peal.  Let 
her  ring  !  No  lights  at  the  front  to  tell  her  they  were 
in  the  house.  She  might  wait  a  little  but  presently 
she  would  realize  that  it  was  hopeless.  He  turned 
from  the  thought  of  her.  He  was  beginning  to 
wonder  .  .  . 

If  the  poison  should  not  work  ?  The  arrows  had 
been  on  his  wall  for  some  time,  moreover  the  quantity 


100  THE  HAUNTING 

of  drink  Pascoe  had  swallowed  might  prevent  the 
poison  from  taking  effect.  He  might  yet  get  up  and, 
staggering  out,  pick  up  his  dunnage  .  .  .  that  heavy 
dunnage. 

Gale's  will  was  set  that  the  man  who  had  robbed  him 
should  not  escape.  It  was  not  retribution  but  justice  ; 
and,  if  the  poison  failed  there  would  be  still  the  head- 
hunter's  spear.  He  could  see  it,  see  himself  lifting  it, 
see  it  shearing  through  flesh,  bone  ...  as  Pascoe 
stooped  over  the  dunnage. 

Suddenly  Pascoe  spoke,  and  as  he  uttered  the  first 
word  something  in  his  voice  gave  Mr.  Corlyon  the 
news  for  which  he  had  been  waiting.  He  sprang  up 
and  put  a  light  to  the  candle. 

"  Wish  I  hadn't  drinked  that  last  glass  of  wine," 
Pascoe  was  muttering.  He  walked  away  from  the 
table,  dropped  on  to  the  settle.  "  It  has  made  me  feel 
queer."  By  the  light  of  the  candle  Mr.  Corlyon  saw 
that  his  face  was  grey,  pinched.  He  stared  for  a 
second,  then,  smiling,  filled  his  lungs  with  the  good  air. 
Oh,  sweet,  sweet  and  good. 

*'  I — I'm  feeling  awful  bad,"  Pascoe  said  and 
looked  up,  looked  at  his  brother.  He  was  looking  for 
help,  but  what  he  saw  on  Gale's  face  took  him  aback. 

"  You've  had  too  much  wine." 

"  No."  Wine  didn't  make  you  feel  like  this — and 
Gale's  face — that  white  hard  look.  More  than 
hard  that  look.  He  remembered  suddenly  that  the 

last  glass  had  been  thick.  "  You •"  he  cried,  but 

he  was  a  match  for  Gale — he  wasn't  afraid  !  "  You've 
put  stuff  in  that  wine  !  " 

He  was  drugged — that  would  be  it  ;  but  why  should 
Gale  drug  him  ?  What  did  he  stand  to  gain  by  keep- 
ing him  in  Stowe  ?  God — it  wasn't  a  mere  drug. 


THE  HAUNTING  101 

He,  Pascoe,  had  taken  the  money  and  that  devil  was 
trying  to  do  him  in.  Trying — but  he  wasn't  dead  yet 
— not  by  a  long  way,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  die.  He 
lurched  to  his  feet.  "  Jenifer  !  "he  shouted.  "  Jeni- 
fer, come  quick." 

"  You're  drunk.  Here — lie  back  and  sleep  ifc  off." 
Mr.  Corlyon  caught  the  swaying  man  about  the  body, 
lifted  him  on  to  the  settle. 

"  I'll  leave  the  town  know —  Things  were 

growing  dim  and  the  sickness  was  in  his  limbs,  paralys- 
ing him,  obscuring  his  sight.  He  must  get  away,  get 
help  and  then — Gale  should  pay. 

Gale  had  thought  to  get  the  better  of  him — but 
Gale  should  pay. 

Pascoe  seemed  to  have  shaken  off  the  restraining 
hands,  but  his  legs  dragged,  were  growing  numb.  He 
could  not  feel  them.  No  matter,  he  must  struggle  on, 
get  to  a  doctor  and  then,  yes,  then  he  would  tell  the 
town. 

His  fellow  men,  the  kindly  folk  of  his  town,  they 
would  see  justice  done. 

An  effort.  Dark,  but  he  knew  the  way.  One  step, 
another  ...  he  must  be  near  the  door. 

The  front  door  .  .  .  then  he  must  be  in  the  passage 
and  that  was  why  it  was  dark.  So  dark.  He  had 
his  hand  on  the  door-knob  but  it  was  slipping. 

Something  crashed  and  he  shouted — shouted  silently 
into  the  void  of  death. 

ii 

Mr.  Corlyon,  seizing  Pascoe  to  prevent  him  from 
running  out  of  the  house,  had  expected  to  encounter  a 
stout  resistance.  Pascoe  would  be  desperate  and 
having  led  a  healthy  seafaring  life  would  be  difficult  to 


102  THE   HAUNTING 

manage.  But  Mr.  Corlyon  would  welcome  that 
resistance.  The  irritation  evoked  by  Jenifer's  untimely 
call,  had  increased  his  excitement,  and  though  he  did 
not  want  to  touch  Pascoe  he  wanted  to  exert  himself, 
to  do  something  strenuous. 

The  sick  man  pushed  him  away,  but  in  a  fumbling 
inconclusive  manner.  The  strength  seemed  to  have 
ebbed  from  his  round  brawn  and  it  was  as  if  his  gaze 
were  fixed  on  something  at  a  distance.  He  struggled 
with  increasing  feebleness  for  a  few  seconds,  then  his 
legs  gave  and  he  collapsed. 

Mr.  Corlyon,  finding  he  held  an  inert  body,  propped 
it  against  the  wooden  back  of  the  settle  ;  but  Pascoe 
fell  over  sideways  and  lay  there,  arms  and  legs  twitch- 
ing. 

"  Leave the  town know "     The   words 

were  a  ghostly  breath,  suggested  rather  than  uttered. 
Throat  and  lips  seemed  to  be  paralysed. 

Not  ten  minutes  since  he  had  taken  the  snake- 
poison  !  He  had  gone  under  very  quickly  .  .  .  too 
quickly.  Mr.  Corlyon  could  not  credit  it.  Pascoe 
was  foxing,  was  gathering  his  strength  for  a  fresh 
effort.  He  must  be  careful  .  .  . 

The  fire  did  not  give  enough  light — and  the  candle 
was  behind  on  the  table.  He  must  not  turn  his  back. 
A  sailor  carried  a  knife  and  that  knife  had  perhaps  been 
whipped  out,  in  readiness.  He  had  a  sensation  be- 
tween his  shoulder-blades — on  no  account  would  he 
turn. 

Putting  a  hand  behind,  he  groped  for  the  candle- 
stick. A  glass  went  over  ...  no  matter !  His 
fingers  were  encountering  food,  cutlery  .  .  .  ah,  he 
had  it  now.  Carrying  the  light  and  holding  it  well 
before  him,  he  returned  to  the  settle. 


THE  HAUNTING  103 

Pascoe  lay  comfortably  asleep,  his  head  on  the  old 
red  cushion,  the  breath  issuing  tranquilly  between 
parted  lips.  He  was  not  ill,  he  was  merely  drunk. 
The  snake-poison,  too  long  exposed  to  the  air,  had  lost 
its  potency. 

The  candlestick  shook  in  Mr.  Corlyon's  hand.  To 
have  botched  his  job  .  .  . 

Drunk  !  In  the  morning  Pascoe  would  awaken 
with  only  a  headache  to  remind  him  of  the  previous 
evening's  debauch  .  .  . 

He  might  have  known  a  man  was  not  so  easily 
killed  ! 

The  head-hunter's  spear  ?  He  couldn't.  Virtue 
had  gone  out  of  him.  He  wasn't  capable  of  the  small- 
est further  effort. 

He  would  go  somewhere  and  lie  down,  let  this  tide 
of  blackness  sweep  over  his  spirit,  give  himself  up  to 
it  ... 

Bone-tired,  he  was,  with  limbs  as  heavy  as  those  of 
Pascoe.  ...  It  would  be  difficult  to  drag  himself 
across  the  room,  up  the  stairs. 

He  found  himself  listening  in  his  weariness  to  Pas- 
coe's  breathing.  Why,  it  had  changed,  grown  audible! 
The  long  inspirations  came  with  a  sort  of  doubt, 
almost  a  break. 

Once  more  he  lifted  the  candle.  Pascoe 's  face  was 
a  yellowish  grey,  his  nostrils  were  black  and  his  eyes 
sunken.  This  was  no  drunken  sleep. 

Then  .  .  .  after  all  .  .  . 

He  had  known  from  the  beginning  it  would  be  thus. 
Neither  time  nor  exposure  could  abate  the  virulence 
of  that  poison.  He  had  won.  If  he  had  had  a  cap 
he  would  have  tossed  it  into  the  air. 

He  was  no  longer  tired — he  could  not  afford  to  be, 


104  THE  HAUNTING 

for  a  hard  night's  work  lay  before  him — but  anyway 
he  wasn't.    He  set  the  candle  back  on  the  table.  .  .  . 

Was  it  his  nerves  ?  No,  someone  was  really  knock- 
ing on  the  window  pane.  He  could  see  a  dark  outline. 
Good  God,  someone — it  was  Jenifer  ! 

She  had  left  the  window,  had  pulled  open  the  back 
door,  was  in  the  passage.  He  stepped  quickly  to  the 
kitchen  door,  met  her,  stood  there  between  her  and 
the  room,  between  her  and  what  lay  on  the  settle. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Corlyon,  I  was  afraid  you  were  out." 

"  We  weren't  out."  His  voice  was  hard,  more  than 
hard.  Never  before  had  she  heard  that  inexorable 
note.  It  hit  like  a  hammer,  not  a  hammer  held  in 
a  man's  hand,  but  one  driven  by  machinery. 

"  I  rang  and  rang."  She  looked  pleadingly  at  the 
steep  chin,  the  thin  short  curve  of  the  mouth,  the 
whole,  long,  narrow  face.  Cold,  hard  ...  no  kind- 
ness. 

"  We  heard  you." 

"  I  wanted  to  see  Pascoe." 

"  He  knew." 

"  Mr.  Corlyon,"  she  took  out  the  handkerchief, 
"  I  wanted  him  to  have  this  before  he  went." 

"  I  will  give  it  to  him." 

"  I  want  to  give  it  to  him  myself." 

"  No."  In  his  hardness  and  coldness  he  was  brutal. 
Only  a  few  days  ago  he  had  spoken  of  love  .  .  .  yes, 
this  same  frost-bound,  stony,  implacable  man. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

He  was  silent  but  did  not  move.  It  almost  seemed 
as  if  he  had  forgotten  her  .  .  .  were  listening  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  please,  Mr.  Corlyon,  why  shouldn't  I  ?  " 

"  He  is  drunk,  sleeping  it  off."  He  glanced  over 
his  shoulder  and  Jenifer  saw  in  the  dimness  a  figure. 


THE  HAUNTING  105 

She  had  had  a  doubt  as  to  Pascoe's  being  in  the  house, 
but  he  was  still  there. 

If  only  she  could  get  past  Mr.  Corlyon,  lay  the 
charmed  linen  in  the  hand  hanging  lax  over  the  edge 
of  the  settle. 

"  I  would  not  disturb  him."  She  tried  to  edge  by, 
but  Mr.  Corlyon  caught  her  arm.  Only  half  a  dozen 
paces  between  her  and  Pascoe.  With  a  sudden  twist 
she  sprang  forward,  her  hand  outstretched,  the  small 
folded  square  between  her  fingers. 

She  would  drop  it  on  his  broad  chest. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Corlyon  again  and,  seizing  her,  swung 
her  round.  Jenifer  was  a  country  girl,  her  muscles 
strengthened  by  house -work.  She  meant  to  reach 
that  dark  and  now  quiescent  figure.  She  must  reach  it 
or  as  soon  as  Pascoe  was  sober,  he  would  go. 

The  breaths  to  which  with  the  very  marrow  of 
him  Mr.  Corlyon  had  been  listening  had  checked, 
gone  on  again,  checked.  Pascoe  still  lived — did  he 
live — did  he  ? 

The  arms  that  closed  round  Jenifer  had  forgotten 
that  she  was  a  woman. 

Struggling,  she  was  thrust  inexorably  back  and 
back — to  the  door — into  the  passage. 

Between  the  straining  bodies  the  handkerchief  fell, 
unnoticed,  on  to  the  wooden  floor. 


CHAPTER  :> 


"  BREAKFAST   on  the  table,  Maister." 

Antiks'  voice,  but  from  a  distance.  He  did  not 
want  to  come  back,  to  rouse  himself.  He  was  tired, 
yes  and  his  limbs  ached,  and  at  the  back  of  things  .  .  . 

He  murmured  sleepily. 

"  Baint  'ee  very  well,  to-day  ?  " 

He  was  an  early  riser,  fond  of  a  cold  bath,  careful 
over  his  toilet.  Antiks  had  never  known  him  to  over- 
sleep. She  came  in,  pulled  up  the  blind. 

•"  I  think  I  have  got  a  chill/' 

"  What,  'av  'ee  catched  a  cold  ?  "  A  wash  of  pale 
sunlight  flowed  over  the  room.  She  saw  that  his 
eyes  were  red-rimmed,  that  the  pale  skin  had  darkened, 
was  almost  sallow.  "  Iss,  you'm  lookin'  whisht. 
Shall  I  go  get  doctor  for  'ee  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  leave  me  alone." 

"  A  cup  of  hot  tea  will  do  you  good."  The  one 
weakness  of  his  fine  physique  was  a  too  great  reaction 
to  changes  of  temperature.  "  I  expect  your  'ead's 
goin'  around  like  a  top." 

The  kettle  was  on  the  boil.  She  soaked  the  tea, 
stood  the  pot  aside  for  the  appointed  three  minutes, 
and  went  on  with  her  work  of  tidying  the  kitchen. 
The  Maister  and  his  brother  had  evidently  put  away 
a  tidy  drop  of  wine  with  their  supper  and  Maister  had 

1 06 


THE  HAUNTING  107 

no  head  for  the  drink.  It  was  probably  as  much  that 
as  the  chill. 

She  carried  the  tea  upstairs,  waiting  on  him  kindly, 
deftly.  While  he  drank  her  glance  was  on  his  round 
head,  the  hair  of  which,  crisp  and  close-lying,  was  bed- 
ruffled,  on  his  sinewy  neck  and  wide  shoulders.  No 
need  for  him  to  go  to  a  good  tailor,  he  would  look  well 
in  anything  he  put  on.  The  shape  of'n  .  .  .  she 
thought  of  the  child  that  might  have  come  to  her  from 
him.  She  did  not  want  any  more  children  ;  but  .  .  . 
Lovely  he  was,  and  a  child  of  his  ... 

How  silly  when  she  had  as  many  as  she  could  do 
with. 

"  I  found  one  of  your  best  wine-glasses  in  the 
chimley,"  she  said.  "  'Twas  broke,  of  course." 

Mr.  Corlyon  gave  her  back  the  cup.  "  Do  your 
work,  Antiks,  and  go  home.  I  shall  get  up  when  I  feel 
like  it." 

She  went  to  the  door.  "  Young  Maister  went  off 
all  right,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

"  Quite  all  right." 

"  When  will  'ee  be  comin'  again  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  coming  back." 

"  Not  comin'  back  any  moor  ?  Gracious,  you 
frighten  me." 

"  He  is  going  to  marry  and  settle  in  Jamaica. 
No.  He  will  not  come  back." 

"  Aw — I  wouldn't  believe  that.  This  rumpy  ole 
place  is  'ome  to  'im.  It's  bound  to  drag'n  back." 

What  was  it  Pascoe  had  said  ?  "I  shall  come  back, 
you  see  if  I  don't  .  .  .  not  a  long  voyage  from 
Jamaica." 


108  THE  HAUNTING 

ii 

Mr.  Corlyon  acknowledged  to  stiffness,  to  an  ache 
in  the  lifting  muscles  of  the  back  ;  but  those  discom- 
forts did  not  account  for  his  remaining  abed.  He  had 
slept  deeply  and  should  have  awakened  as  fit  as 
usual ;  but  he  felt  empty,  done.  It  was  as  if  he  could 
not  lift  his  head  from  the  pillow,  as  if  it  were  too  much 
trouble  to  move.  He  did  not  remember  ever  to  have 
felt  so  slack.  There  was  work  waiting  for  him,  but 
he  did  not  think  he  would  bother  about  it.  He  would 
stay  where  he  was. 

Antiks  offered  to  bring  him  a  book,  but  he  only 
shook  his  head.  Hold  up  a  book  ?  Keep  his  atten- 
tion on  the  words  ?  Take  in  the  sense  ?  After  all 
the  Vestiges  of  Creation  was  nothing  but  a  series  of 
guesses,  while  the  Rhoda  Broughton  novel  ...  he 
could  not  remember  either  name  or  theme. 

As  to  Edwin  Rabey — what  did  it  matter  if  his  wife 
had  gone  back  to  her  mother  ?  It  was  not  Corlyon 's 
affair.  Let  them  settle  it  as  they  would,  he  had  lost 
interest. 

The  black  wind  was  blowing.  It  mourned  in  the 
chimney,  it  drove  through  every  crevice,  thinning  the 
blood,  and  darkening  the  winter  crops.  Mr.  Corlyon 
thought  it  must  have  been  blowing  throughout  the 
night.  He  seemed  to  remember  .  .  . 

in 

His  mind  was  like  the  ground.  It  lay  under  a  black- 
ness, a  blackness  of  wind.  It  lay  still  and  cold,  per- 
haps dead.  So  exhausted  was  he,  that  he  felt  almost 
glad  to  lie  quiescent  under  the  numbing  blackness, 
give  himself  up  to  it. 


THE  HAUNTING  109 

He  remembered  seeing  a  boy  kick  before  him,  along 
the  ringing  stones  of  the  quay,  an  old  tin  pail.  Bent, 
battered,  and  with  a  hole  in  the  bottom,  it  was  kicked 
noisily  into  the  sea.  He  was  like  that,  finished  and 
at  the  mercy  of  winds  out  of  the  east  and  north,  at  the 
mercy  of  his  moods. 

Only  momentarily  though.  A  day's  rest  would  put 
him  to  rights.  A  few  hours  of  peace  and  the  destroy- 
ing blackness  would  lift.  Life  was  as  full  of  interests 
as  it  could  hold  and  he  knew  it  was.  He  knew  it 
with  the  back  of  his  mind,  yet,  in  front,  was  a  wonder 
how  he  could  have  bothered  himself  with  the  affairs 
of  other  people.  Trivial  and  commonplace  those 
affairs,  yet  at  the  time  they  had  seemed  worth  while. 

Nothing  was  except  the  maintenance  of  this  dead 
black  peace,  the  maintenance  of  it  until  something 
underneath,  something  that  had  been  hurt,  wounded, 
had  had  time  to  heal. 

Though  he  wanted  the  peace  to  last,  he  did  not  think 
that  it  would.  It  was  like  a  pool :  water,  clear  still 
midnight  water  from  the  surface  down.  It  was  deep, 
but  not  deep  as  Dozmare,  and  it  bottomed  on — what  ? 
No  matter  what,  at  least  no  matter  as  long  as  whatever 
it  was  did  not  move.  He  had  a  feeling  that  in  those 
depths  was  a  something  that  might  presently  detach 
itself  from  the  sand  and  stones,  glimmer  up  from  the 
pool.  He  did  not  want  to  see  it,  he  wanted  it  to  lie 
there  until  it  had  rotted  into  nothingness. 

A  heavy  weight  of  water,  heavy  enough  to  keep 
bones  and  wreckage  "  down  among  the  dead  men  "; 
yet,  for  all  that  weight  there  was  under  the  water  a 
sort  of  stir. 

It  was  so  faint  as  to  be  hardly  noticeable.  If  he 
turned  his  mind  to  something  else — to  Edwin 


110  THE  HAUNTING 

Rabey's  affairs — he  would  be  able  to  ignore  that  slight 
creeping  of  the  ooze. 

Outside,  a  sailor  on  the  old  men's  bench,  at  the  head 
of  the  quay,  thought  to  warm  himself  by  playing  an 
accordion. 

Mr.  Corlyon  could  not  help  but  hear.  The  melan- 
choly long-drawn  notes  fell  on  his  attempted  pre- 
occupation with  Edwin  Rabey.  In  spite  of  himself  he 
listened  ;  and,  listening,  was  caught  by  the  emotion. 
He  listened  and  slowly,  gradually,  the  bottom  of  the 
pool  slurred.  It  began  to  move  ;  broke,  at  last,  into 
a  squirm  of  life  ;  into  things  that  rose  whitely,  waver- 
ingly,  through  the  water. 

Tremors  began  to  run  down  his  spine.  He  was  being 
forced  by  that  abominable  melody  to  see  .  .  . 


IV 

He  turned  impatiently  in  his  bed.  Confound  the 
fellow — would  he  never  stop  ?  He  wanted  to  slip 
back  into  the  quiet,  which  like  graveyard  clods  had 
covered  him  :  that  quiet — yes,  the  quiet,  almost,  of 
Pascoe.  A  deed  done  was  a  thing  that  should  be 
forgotten.  He  had  turned  his  back  on  the  events  of 
the  previous  night,  had  concentrated  on  other  people's 
affairs.  At  least,  he  had  tried  to  but,  from  somewhere 
deep  in  himself,  rose  and  continued  to  rise,  this  suc- 
cession of  terrible  memories.  He  sought  to  keep  them 
down  but,  inexorably,  they  pushed  their  way  up  ... 
filled  it.  And  he  could  not  escape.  His  mind  was  a 
stage  on  which  certain  scenes  were  being  enacted, 
scenes  to  which  he  might  not  shut  his  eyes. 

The  white,  sun-washed  bedroom  had  gradually 
become  less  real  than  the  mental  pictures  at  which  he 


THE  HAUNTING  111 

was  looking,  less  real  than  the  scenes  in  which  he  was 
taking  part.  He  was  back  in  the  dim  kitchen,  with 
the  door  finally  shut  on  Jenifer,  on  her  despairing, 
incomprehensible,  "Oh,  it  has  touched  wood ! "  He  was 
standing  by  the  hearth,  seeing  the  disordered  supper- 
table,  the  candle,  the  settle.  Yet  he  did  not  actually 
see  these  things,  he  was  only  aware  of  them. 

He  was  too  fiercely  intent  on  something  else — on 
those  stertorous  breaths.  He  was  waiting  for  the 
catch,  the  threatened  break.  An  eternity  before  it 
came.  At  last — a  heave  of  the  broad  chest  and  where 
there  had  been  so  much  sound  a  sudden  astounding 
silence. 

A  silence  and  stillness  that  had  appalled  him.  Only 
for  a  moment,  though,  for  what  he  had  really  felt  had 
been  relief.  What  he  had  set  himself  to  do  was  done. 
A  struggle  and  he  had  won.  He  had  planned,  carried  his 
plan  into  execution,  and  therefore  could  only  be  content. 

But  the  stillness — it  had  been  unnerving.  Life 
slipped  out  of  the  body,  slipped,  he  must  suppose,  into 
the  surrounding  air ;  at  any  rate  it  so  filled  the  room 
that  the  only  thing  empty  of  it  was  the  hushed  figure 
on  the  settle. 

He  had  lighted  more  candles.  It  was  necessary  to 
see  the  dead  man's  face.  He  must  convince  himself 
that  what,  a  moment  ago,  had  been  full  of  painful  life, 
was  grown  indifferent.  Pascoe's  spirit,  if  it  existed, 
would  be  a  flame  of  vindictive  wrath.  To  have  been 
got  the  better  of,  and  by  the  brother  he  had  despised, 
whom  he  had  thought  of  as  an  old  buffer,  his  rage  would 
be  extreme.  But  of  this,  on  his  face  there  was  no  sign. 
He  looked  entirely  unconcerned. 

That  unconcern  had  made  it  possible  for  Gale  to  do 
what  was  necessary. 


112  THE  HAUNTING 


Though  a  strong  man,  his  back  and  shoulders  had 
ached  before,  with  his  burden,  he  got  to  the  end  of  the 
fogou.  God — how  heavy !  From  the  settle  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs — down  the  stairs,  slippery  with 
weather,  to  the  cave.  The  load  he  carried  was 
slack,  unwieldy  ;  he  had  not  the  knack  of  it. 

He  was  stumbling  through  darkness,  he  had  forgot- 
ten where  the  passage  twisted,  he  was  bumping  against 
an  unexpected  wall  of  rock.  Interminable,  the  narrow 
black  tunnel !  Twisty-ways,  it  ran  back  into  the 
hill,  on  and  on,  while  what  he  carried  was  not  mere 
dead  flesh,  but  something  bewitched  with  weight.  His 
mind  had  cast  forward  to  the  run  of  earth,  the  crack 
in  the  rock-roof.  Would  he  ever  make  it  ?  He  must 
have  been  hours  staggering  and  stumbling  along  in  the 
dark. 

The  accordion  on  which  the  sailor  was  playing  to 
keep  himself  warm,  must  be  a  good  one,  or  it  would 
not  have  affected  him,  Gale.  That  tune,  people  stood 
at  the  street-corners,  Christmas,  and  sang  it.  He 
knew  it  well  but  could  not  remember  to  have  been 
moved  by  it  at  any  other  time. 

Scene  after  scene  rose,  passed  through  his  mind. 
They  came  in  spite  of  him,  he  saw  them  with  a 
greater  vividness  than  he  had  when  they  had  taken 
place.  At  the  time  he  had  been  too  preoccupied  to 
see  them  as  horrible,  doubtful  if  he  would  now  had  it 
not  been  for  the  accordion.  If  only  the  fellow  would 
take  himself  off  and  if  he,  Gale  Corlyon,  could  shut 
against  unwelcome  visions,  the  door  of  his  mind.  Ah 
— if  only  he  need  not  see  that  limp,  sprawly  body  that 


THE  HAUNTING  113 

had  slipped  from  his  shoulder  to  the  rubble  ;  that 
had — settled. 

Even  then,  he  had  felt  sick.  Staggering  out  through 
the  sea-cave  he  had  found  that,  after  that  nightmare 
of  bitter  travail,  day  was  still  in  the  sky.  Leaning 
against  the  rock  he  had  waited  until  he  should  be  a 
little  recovered. 

Behind  him,  behind  the  wall  of  the  sea-cave,  lying 
there  in  the  dank,  weedy  dark — Pascoe's  body  !  He 
was  shivering  in  the  breeze,  but  he  was  not  unnerved, 
he  was  not  even  cold  ;  no,  he  was  tired,  that  was  it — 
tired. 

He  would  have  to  go  back  ;  finish  his — job. 

If  only  Pascoe  had  fallen  face  under.  Though  Mr. 
Corlyon  brought  down  on  it  all  the  loose  rocks  of 
Gudda  Hill,  he  would  still  see  the  waxy  whiteness  of 
that  face. 

Not  if  he  determined  otherwise.  To  determine  was 
to  act.  He  would  turn  the  grisly  thing  out  of  his 
mind  and  think  of  the  sea,  of  the  thin  moon — a  moon 
like  a  shred  of  linen — think  of  it  rising  over  the  cliff. 
Dull  and  white,  it  hung  in  a  fair  sky,  a  sky  kept  from 
darkening  by  that  glow  in  the  west. 

The  Dragon  Rock  stood  black  against  the  blood  of 

a   dead   and   buried   sun.     Against   the   blood ? 

There  had  been  no  blood  and  what  he  had  done  was 
justifiable.  A  man  should  fight  for  what  was  his, 
fight  with  what  weapons  he  had,  fight  to  win. 

A  fold  of  rock  had  made  a  tongue  between  the  jaws 
of  the  Dragon,  a  slavering,  desirous  tongue  ;  and  the 
Dragon — it  had  crouched,  expectant.  For  what  was 
it  waiting  ? 

He  had  wanted  to  stay  there,  but  he  might  not. 
There  were  still  things  he  had  to  do. 
H 


114  THE  HAUNTING 

VI 

Lying  stiffly  in  his  bed,  with  the  vision  of  that 
burial  dark,  yet  clear,  a  vision  from  which  he  could 
not  turn,  to  which  he  could  not  shut  his  inner  sight, 
he  found  that  the  sweat  was  standing  on  his  forehead. 
His  shirt  was  clinging  to  his  body,  his  fingers  crisping 
as  they  had  crisped  on  the  stout  pole  of  driftwood  with 
which  he  had  thrust  at  the  loose  rocks  in  the  crevice. 

On  that  first  thrust  had  followed  a  little  run  of 
earth.  The  stones  had  fallen  on  that  upturned  face. 
They  would  cover  it  from  sight,  but  no,  they  had 
rolled  away.  It  was  still  there,  a  dim  whiteness  that 
to  him  was  not  dim.  Its  unconcern  with  this  last 
indignity  had  whipped  Corlyon  to  a  fury  of  thrusting. 
Crash  and  roar  and  tumult.  He  was  springing  away, 
but  with  the  dust  in  his  throat.  Coughing,  he  had 
turned  to  look  back,  but  to  his  amazement  the  gleam 
of  light,  the  gleam  from  the  sea,  from  yellowing  moon 
and  fading  sunset  had  vanished.  He  perceived  that 
the  roof  caving  in  had  blocked  the  fogou. 

The  limp  loose  flesh  that  he  had  dragged  through 
passage  and  cavern  was  buried — but  it  had  taken  half 
Gudda  to  hide  it.  Tons  of  rock  must  have  rolled  out 
of  the  crack — but  why  did  he  keep  harping  on  it  ? 
Pascoe  was  safely  buried,  and  the  time  had  come  to 
think  of  something  more  pleasant.  Why  not  the 
money  ?  Gale  had  poured  it  back  into  the  pigskin 
bags,  had  counted  the  bags,  had  set  them  in  rows  in  the 
old  chest.  The  money  from  the  emeralds  had  filled 
another.  There  were  now  eleven  bags.  But  a  waxen 
face  rose  from  under  the  bags  and  it  was  the  face — 
the  upturned  face  of  Pascoe — that  had  substance,  not 
the  bags. 


THE  HAUNTING  115 

VII 

Gale  Corlyon  sprang  out  of  bed.  Anything  would 
be  better  than  lying  there,  re-living  the  occurrences  of 
the  night.  It  was  the  fault  of  the  music.  Once  he 
were  in  the  street,  the  commonplace,  everyday 
street,  he  would  be  able  to  give  his  mind  to  other 
matters. 

What  had  he  done  ?  Usurped  the  law's  prerogative? 
But  the  law  did  not  do  justice.  The  law  acted  in  what 
it  considered  the  interests  of  the  community  and  that, 
even  in  the  long  run,  was  hardly  justice.  As  to  the 
mills  of  God,  they  ground  too  slowly. 

To  take  the  law  into  your  own  hands  needed  cour- 
age. Well,  at  least  he  had  that.  Even  so,  he  must 
admit  that  he  was  shaken. 

But  only  for  the  time  being.  He  would  be  all  right 
as  soon  as  other  events — time — was  hung  like  dust, 
like  mist,  like  a  wall,  between  him  and  it. 

He  would  walk  up  to  the  Rabeys,  have  a  talk  with 
Edwin  about  that  girl  at  the  Cornish  Arms.  Mrs. 
Rabey  was  partly  to  blame,  an  offish  cold  sort  of 
woman,  but  her  husband  had  been  foolish.  He  would 
say  ...  er  ...  damnation,  he  was  back  in  the 
kitchen  !  Clear  as  if  time  and  space  did  not  exist,  that 
supine  figure  on  the  settle  .  .  . 

He  hurried  out  of  the  house.  Evergreens  rose 
above  the  whitewashed  wall  of  the  garden  and  beyond 
lay  the  square  basin  of  the  harbour.  Corlyon,  if  he 
meant  to  call  on  Rabey,  should  have  turned  to  the 
right  ;  but  the  sailor,  now  playing  "  Old  Zadock," 
was  sitting  on  the  bench  and  that  the  events  of  the 
night  were  present  in  Corlyon's  thoughts  was  the  fault 
of  the  music.  He  must  get  away  from  it.  Without 


116  THE  HAUNTING 

realizing  that  he  had  done  so,  he  turned  to  the  left, 
walked  towards  the  sea. 

The  tide  being  out,  the  wide,  shallow  estuary  was 
a  breadth  of  bright,  hard  sand.  A  tortuous  sea- 
channel  ran  snakily  from  east  to  west.  On  the  south, 
the  cliffs,  black-faced,  were  dented  into  coves,  into 
bays,  and  the  ground  at  their  feet  was  "  hard  country." 
Corlyon  walking  rapidly  was  as  one  in  a  dream. 
Coming  round  a  bluff,  he  startled  a  grey-blue  heron 
and  the  flight  of  the  bird,  legs  hanging,  head  up,  roused 
him  to  a  sense  of  his  whereabouts.  He  had  reached 
the  Dragon  Rock,  the  grey  rough  rock,  and  the  over- 
head sun  was  wrapping  it  in  white  light.  At  least,  it 
should  have  done  so,  but  he — he  saw  it  black  against  a 
blood-red  sunset. 

He  must  keep  his  thoughts  from  straying  back. 
This  was  noon  of  a  lovely  day.  He  saw,  as  if  a  veil  had 
lifted,  the  wintry  blue  of  the  sea,  the  sand  dunes 
of  the  opposite  shore,  the  island  guarding  the  mouth  of 
the  estuary.  A  beautiful  world — and  he  was  alive 
to  enjoy  it  ! 

Alive  ?  Why  could  he  not  forget  that  there  were 
others  .  .  .  one  other,  who  was  no  longer  alive  ? 
Pascoe  had  not  been  worthy,  and  he  had  been  merely 
the  instrument  of  fate  in  ridding  the  world — this 
lovely  world — of  him. 

It  must  be  dinner  time.  He  would  go  home  the 
short  way,  go  through  the  fogou.  He  turned 
into  the  sea-cave,  heard  with  joyous  heart  the 
drip  of  the  water  from  rock  to  basin,  from  basin  to  the 
smooth  blue  and  white  pebbles,  turned  towards  the 
narrow  rock- walled  passage. 

He  had  forgotten.  He  stood,  unable  to  believe. 
Yes,  actually,  he  had  forgotten. 


THE  HAUNTING  117 

The  passage  was  blocked,  fragments  of  broken  rock, 
of  quartz  had  fallen  through  into  the  sea-cave ;  but 
behind,  solid  to  the  roof,  were  stones  and  earth. 

His  glance  lighted  on  a  bit  of  shaped  rubbish,  a — 
was  it  a  foot  ?  Quickly,  he  stepped  back.  No,  no — 
Pascoe  was  too  far  under.  The  black  object  was  an 
old  broken  boot,  a  bit  of  flotsam  which  had  drifted 
in  on  the  tide,  been  stranded  there  by  receding  waves. 
Hitherto,  the  sea  had  slipped  through  the  passage, 
at  full  tide  had  flowed  a  few  yards  up  the  fogou. 
It  could  not  now.  It  could  only  beat  on  a  wall 
of  crushed,  piled  debris,  tons  of  it.  As  it  gradually 
filled  the  cave,  rising  to  the  rock-roof,  it  would 
beat  on  it  more  and  more  heavily — but  it  would 
not  be  able  to  break  through. 

Corlyon  turned  back,  turned  towards  the  basin 
of  clear  spring  water.  He  had  always  drunk  of  it 
and,  as  usual,  he  would  drink.  He  cupped  his  hand, 
but  as  he  dipped  it,  the  thought  came  that  Pascoe 
lay  behind  the  wall  from  which  the  water  dripped. 
The  rock  held  him  there,  and  the  water  .  .  . 

"  Some  body  in  this  wine." 


CHAPTER  XI 


"  So  we  seen  the  last  of  Mr.  Pascoe  ?  "  The  smith 
was  receipting  a  bill  while  Mr.  Corlyon,  leaning  against 
the  rough  wall  of  the  "  shop,"  waited. 

"  I  hope  not." 

The  smith  nodded  sympathetically.  "  Reckon 
'e'll  come  back  when  'e  mind  to  ;  but  'e  was  never 
the  one  to  stay  'ome.  'E  was  like  a  rambling  stone, 
'ere  to-day,  and  gone  to-morrer." 

"  He  will  have  to  mend  his  ways,  for  he  is  going 
into  partnership  with  friends — a  business  partner- 
ship." 

"  My  Gor',  if  'e  'aye  to  sit  down  and  work,  'e'll 
mump.  'E  'edn't  goin'  stay  in  a  office,  surely  ?  " 

"  Time  he  settled  down.  You  know  he  is  going 
to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Marryin'  a  foreigner,  'edn'  'e  ?  " 

"  Well— a  Scottish  maid." 

"  Ay,  a  foreigner  !  And  they'm  always  different 
from  we.  But  you'll  miss  him,  Mr.  Corlyon,  I  bet ; 
'tis  all  you  got,  you  know." 

ii 

Every  fresh  person  to  whom  he  spoke  talked  of 
Pascoe. 

Hitherto,  the  fogou  had  been  the  secret  fact  in 

118 


THE  HAUNTING  lid 

his  life,  but  that  had  given  place  to  Pascoe.  There 
was  the  real  Pascoe,  hidden  under  Gudda  Hill,  and 
the  Pascoe  on  his  way  to  Jamaica.  Two  Pascoes, 
one  for  the  town,  and  put  on  when  he  went  out,  as 
he  put  on  an  overcoat ;  the  other,  a  secret  of  the 
Brown  House. 

The  overcoat  was  heavy,  he  got  tired  of  wearing  it. 
The  hidden  Pascoe  was  also  a  weariness.  With 
Pascoe's  death  his  anger  had  passed.  He  wanted, 
now,  to  forget  that  he  had  been  wronged  and  had 
avenged  himself.  He  would  have  been  glad  to 
forget  that  Pascoe  had  ever  existed. 

The  deed  being  done  should  sink  into  the  quick- 
sands of  time.  If  he  were  patient,  waited  a  little, 
this  would  happen.  Eventually,  too,  the  townsfolk 
would  find  some  other  topic  of  conversation.  Mean- 
while, there  was  only  one  house  he  knew  of,  in  which 
the  name  of  Pascoe  did  not  star  the  talk.  Mrs. 
Liddicoat  never  spoke  of  him,  neither  did  Jenifer. 
Jenifer,  he  noticed,  hardly  spoke  of  anything.  She 
sat  at  her  embroidery  as  if  engrossed  by  it,  she  wore 
a  strained  unhappy  look. 

Poor  little  maid,  if  he  could  have  done  anything 
for  her,  he  would.  Strange  that  he  should  feel  like 
that  about  her  !  Why,  he  would  have  got  her  lover 
back  if  possible  ;  and  that,  of  course,  meant  he  did 
not  want  her  himself.  He  did  not,  either.  He  had 
no  longer  any  feeling  for  her. 

Queer,  when  he  had  thought  the  world  of  her. 
But  that  was  often  the  way.  Hottest  fire  is  soonest 
out.  And  Jenifer — he  knew  things  about  her,  Pascoe 
had  let  the  truth  escape.  Yet  it  was  not  that,  no, 
it  was  that  she  brought  it  all  back.  That  night — 
and  she,  trying  to  get  to  Pascoe,  and  Pascoe  dying. 


120  THE  HAUNTING 

Something  in  him,  Gale,  had  died,  too  ;  died  even 
more  suddenly.  He  did  not  want  to  see  her  again, 
in  fact,  he  would  have  gone  out  of  his  way  to  avoid 
her.  Not  that  he  felt  aggrieved  in  any  way,  but  that 
he  had  changed. 

Amazing  that  he  should  have  so  greatly  changed. 
His  last  thought  at  night,  his  first  in  the  morning 
had  been  Jenifer,  but  that  loveliness  of  corn-coloured 
hair,  of  wide  blue  eyes,  of  full  red  lips  no  longer  tor- 
mented him.  Pascoe's  woman — but  it  was  not  that. 
It  was  simply  that  desire  was  dead.  Pictures  of  her 
in  the  baby-linen  shop,  in  the  little  old  garden  at  the 
back  no  longer  troubled  his  quiet  of  a  man  not  young, 
and  occupied  with  affairs  rather  than  emotions. 
Extraordinary  !  He  had  felt  so  strongly,  and  for 
such  a  long  time,  and  now  he  was  like  an  empty  cup. 
The  fever  in  the  blood,  the  craving  that  had  been 
a  pain — gone. 

Well,  he  was  glad.  It  was  good  to  be  himself  again, 
to  be  at  peace.  From  the  beginning  it  had  been  hope- 
less, and  he  had  known  it  ;  but,  knowing  it,  had  yet 
persevered.  Now  he  was  free  of  his  obsession,  could 
go  back  to  the  pleasant  round  Jenifer  had  disturbed 
— his  work  as  an  auctioneer,  his  friendly  help  given 
to  any  who  needed  it,  his  little  suppers  with  Mrs. 
Liddicoat.  If  Jenifer  had  cared  for  him,  it  might 
have  put  an  end  to  his  pleasant  relations  with  her 
mother,  and  that — no,  he  did  not  want  that  to  happen. 
That  was  of  real  importance  to  him.  During  the  ten 
years  of  placid  friendship  something  in  him  had 
grown  tall  and  broad,  struck  its  roots  deep.  Every 
Thursday  he  had  dropped  in,  to  sit  in  .the  garden 
through  the  warm  summer  evenings  and  by  the  fire 
during  the  winter  nights.  He  had  talked  or  been. 


THE  HAUNTING  121 

silent,  come  or  gone  as  he  chose.  It  was  not 
only  that  he  was  made  welcome,  he  was  made  at 
home.  The  baby-linen  shop,  the  widow's  cir- 
cumstances, her  warm  heart  and  sensible  mind, 
they  were  as  familiar  <o  him  as  the  rooms  of  the 
house  on  Quayside. 

A  strong,  sane  woman,  Mrs.  Liddicoat,  and  kind. 
She  made  a  man  think  of  the  fruitful  earth  and  the 
clean  out-of-doors.  He  liked  her,  he  more  than 
liked  her. 

Her  presence  rested  him.  When  he  was  with  her, 
the  dark  recollections  which  the  accordion  player 
had  brought  to  the  surface  of  Mr.  Corlyon's  mind, 
and  which,  since  then,  had  drifted  in  it  like  flotsam 
on  the  edge  of  a  tide,  disappeared.  As  he  went  about 
his  work,  the  thought  of  her  back  room,  the  room 
that  looked  on  the  sunny  garden,  the  thought  of  her 
well  tended  fire,  of  her  sympathetic  presence,  drew 
him.  He  longed  to  drop  in,  not  only  on  Thursdays, 
but  every  evening  of  the  week. 

Morwenna  Liddicoat  could  be  sympathetic  without 
understanding.  Words  between  them  were  unneces- 
sary. Whatever  his  mood,  she  adapted  herself. 
She  gave  him  peace,  she  renewed  his  strength. 


in 

Mrs.  Liddicoat  looked  up  from  the  "  toddling  shoes  " 
she  was  making  out  of  cuttings  of  white  satin,  with  a 
wild  notion  that  the  days  of  the  week  had  misplaced 
themselves.  It  was  not  Thursday?  Oh,  but  it  must 
be,  for  here  was  Mr.  Corlyon. 

And  she  had  nothing  nice  for  supper. 

Where  could  Jenifer  be  ?     She  must  run  down  to 


122  THE  HAUNTING 

Butcher  Andrew  and  see  what  he  had.  Why,  of 
course,  Jenifer  was  in  the  linhay,  washing  her  traade, 
and  it  was  Monday  .  .  .  butcher  would  not  be  open. 

They  had  been  crying  herrings  through  the  town, 
and  she  had  not  bought  any  :  but  Mrs.  Tippett  had 
taken  a  score  for  salting-in.  Nothing  more  toothsome 
than  a  well-fried  herring,  and  likely  Mrs.  Tippett 
would  spare  her  some.  But  there,  what  was  she 
thinking  of,  he  did  not  like  fish.  Well,  then,  she  must 
fry  him  slices  of  hog's  pudding,  with  a  jam  hobbin  to 
follow — so  like  a  man  not  to  say  he  was  coming. 

She  pushed  the  satin — remnants  of  wedding  dresses 
which  were  to  furnish  forth  the  shoes  of  the  new- 
comers— aside,  and  gave  Mr.  Corlyon  the  smile  for 
which  he  was  looking. 

"  I'm  pretty  an'  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Though  I  was  here  last  Thursday,  and  mean  to 
come  again  next  ?  " 

"  You  are  always  welcome."  Her  lips  said  it,  and 
her  eyes  and  the  curves  of  her  face.  Her  glance  was 
more  than  friendly,  it  had  warmth  in  it.  Ten  years, 
and  she  had  never  failed  him.  He  spoke  on  an 
impulse.  "  Wennie,  let  us  get  married.  I  feel  I 
can't  do  without  you,  and  that's  a  fact/' 

The  colour  left  her  face  ;  and  yet,  though  it  changed, 
the  change  was  towards  youth.  Out  of  her  eyes 
looked  an  intensity  which  was  pitiful.  "  You  don't 
mean  that.  You  can't  .  .  .  you  can't  want  me  ..." 

He  saw  that  she  loved  him  :  that  she  had  loved 
him  with  self-denial  and  without  hope  for  a  long  time  : 
that  she  dared  not  believe  that,  at  last,  he  had  turned 
to  her. 

He  stooped,  gave  her  the  kiss  for  which,  for  years, 
she  had  been  waiting. 


THE  HAUNTING  123 

IV 

Jenifer,  her  washing  wrung  out  ready  for  the  line, 
stepped  from  the  low  door  of  the  linhay  on  to  the 
flagged  path  which  ran  between  bushes  of  currant 
and  gooseberry  to  the  wall  of  unequal  stones  at  the 
end  of  the  garden.  Her  mother  would  be  in  the 
kitchen  sewing  white  satin  uppers  to  kid  soles.  She 
must  tell  her  she  had  finished,  that  as  soon  as  she  had 
hung  out  her  traade  she  would  be  ready  for  tea. 
As  she  passed  the  window,  she  bent  to  look  in. 

Her  mother  and  Mr.  Corlyon  !  That  look  in  his 
unusually  bright  eyes,  why — it  was  the  look  he  had 
had  for  her,  Jenifer.  No  mistaking  it.  She  moved 
away,  began,  mechanically,  to  hang  the  clothes  on 
the  line.  A  week  or  two  back,  and  he  had  said  it  was 
she  he  loved,  now  it  was  her  mother.  Ah,  they  were 
brothers,  Pascoe  and  he. 

Love,  men  talked  to  you  of  love,  and  appeared  to 
be  dreadfully  in  earnest  :  they  not  only  seemed,  they 
were  ;  they  felt  so  strongly  that  you  pitied  them,  and 
then — all  in  a  moment — it  was  over.  They  did  mean 
what  they  said  and  implied,  you  could  not  doubt  it. 
But  they  meant  it  only  while  they  were  speaking, 
only  while  they  were  in  that  particular  mood. 

To  think  she  should  have  been  so  foolish  as  to  believe 
a  man's  love  could  last  !  Love  .  .  .  with  marriage  to 
follow  ?  It  should  have  been  the  other  way  round. 
Oh — that  she  should  have  been  so  green  !  Only 
three  months  away,  yet  he  had  forgotten.  As  quickly 
as  that  !  And  he  had  begged  of  her,  how  he  had 
begged  !  She  burned  with  shame  at  her  recollections 
— that  she  should  have  been  so  easily  won  ! 

"  Jenifer  !  " 


124  THE  HAUNTING 

She  did  not  hear,  and  ,the  man  looking  over  the 
wall  at  the  end  repeated  her  name.  Rousing  at  that, 
she  saw  it  was  Denny  Manhire,  the  groom  from  Caer, 
the  kind  boy  who  was  always  doing  little  things  to 
give  her  pleasure.  The  sight  of  him  eased  the  pain 
at  her  heart,  was  a  salve  to  wounded  vanity.  Here 
was  somebody  who  thought  the  world  of  her.  He  did, 
but  would  he  if  he  knew  ?  She  went  on  with  her 
work,  and  Denny,  his  arms  on  the  wall,  waited. 

She  was  like  that,  she  kept  him  waiting,  yet  in 
the  end  she  came.  He  did  not  mind,  for  he  had 
the  evening  before  him,  and  it  was  not  often  he  was 
able  to  stand  and  look  at  her. 

Her  sleeves  were  rolled  high.  To  keep  it  free  of 
dust,  she  had  covered  her  glinty  hair  with  a  white 
kerchief.  Over  her  blue  cotton  frock  she  wore  an 
apron,  an  apron  which,  in  spite  of  the  hours  she  had 
spent  at  the  washing  tray,  was  still  snowy.  Raising 
dimpled  arms,  she  fixed  garment  after  garment  on 
the  line,  and  the  mild  breeze  set  them  a-dance.  At 
last,  she  turned,  and  Denny  tried  to  encourage  himself 
with  the  thought  of  those  four  rooms  over  the  stables 
at  Caer,  but  he  only  remembered  their  emptiness, 
and  that  it  was  for  Jenifer  to  say  whether  or  no  they 
must  remain  empty. 

"  I  bin  wantin'  to  ride  over  for  more  than  a  week." 

"  For  Mrs.  Pendragon's  traade  ?  " 

He  put  a  hand  over  to  take  hers,  but  she  showed  him 
fingers  crinkled  from  the  water  and  shook  her  head. 
"  My  hand  is  all  clibby." 

She  would  not  even  give  him  her  hand  !  That 
tottering  confidence  of  his — his  confidence  in  the 
rooms,  limewashed  by  himself,  and  looking  over  the 
busy  stable  yard  and  back  premises  of  Caer — fell 


THE  HAUNTING  125 

with  a  crash.  She  wanted  neither  him  nor  his  rooms, 
and  he  might  have  saved  himself  the  trouble  of  riding 
in. 

He  had  his  back  to  the  sun,  but  the  light  was  on 
Jenifer,  on  roses  that  had  been  nipped  by  some  wind 
of  trouble.  Denny  saw  that  she  looked  tired.  All 
day  at  the  washing — it  might  be  that. 

"Why,  Jenifer,  you'm  lookin'  whisht,  what  you 
been  doin'  to  yourself  ?  " 

The  colour  rushed  into  the  girl's  cheeks.  "  If 
that  is  all  you  got  to  say  .  .  .  ' 

"  Aw,  don't  fetch  your  spite  out  on  me,  lovey. 
I'm  sick  and  sorry  to  see  it." 

Gawky,  scant -haired,  yet  kind  !  Some  men  took 
all  they  could  get  and  gave  nothing  in  return,  but 
there  were  others.  It  might  be  Denny  was  one  of 
the  others,  and  she  wanted  kindness.  It  was  a  bad 
old  world,  that  it  was. 

"  I'm  out  of  heart  with   everything." 

"  What  ?  "  Denny  had  hoped  for  himself ;  had 
feared  Pascoe  ;  deep  down  had  known  Pascoe  was 
Jenifer's  fancy.  "  Is  a  gone  ?  "  Caer  was  five  miles 
from  Stowe,  and  news  was  sometimes  lame-footed. 
He  had  not  heard  Pascoe  had  left,  and  it  would  account 
for  the  alteration  in  Jenifer's  looks. 

"  What  is  that  to  do  with  you  ?  " 

He  had  known,  hoping  he  was  mistaken,  hoping — 
until  she  spoke.  Dreariness,  like  a  wash  of  dirty 
water,  spread  over  his  soul.  In  the  same  boat,  he 
and  she.  Poor  Jenifer  !  But  the  rascal  Pascoe  had 
cared  for  her  !  Had — they  all  knew  what  Pascoe 
was  ! 

ic  What  worry  you,  dear  life,  worry  me." 

She  glanced  at  him  thoughtfully  for  a  moment, 


126  THE  HAUNTING 

then  shook  her  head.     "  My  worries  be  my  own." 

She  was  such  a  young  soft  little  thing.  The  sight 
of  her  in  trouble  made  his  heart  ache.  "  Let  me 
share 'n." 

The  incongruous  suggestion  made  her  laugh,  and 
the  laughter  brought  back  old  ease  and  friendliness. 
Denny  had  always  been  good  to  her;  perhaps,  even 
if  he  did  know  .  .  . 

Anyhow,  what  did  it  matter  ? 

"  Share  them  ?     My  lor',  you  can't  do  that  !  " 

The  laughter  was  encouraging.  "  Jenifer,  you 
been  funny  with  me  lately,  and  after  us  being  such 
good  friends  ..." 

"  I  can't  help  it  if  I  be."  She  gave  him  a  quick 
look.  "  Pascoe  is  goin'  marry  some  black  woman 
out  there." 

"  Then  you  can't  have  him."  He  could  sympathize, 
but  under  the  sympathy,  his  heart  was  full  of 
gladness. 

"  No-o,"  her  eyes,  wide-set  and  darkly  blue,  were 
bright  with  tears.  They  spilled  over,  big  flashing 
drops,  they  fell  on  the  crazy  pattern  of  the  wall. 
"  But,  Denny,  I — I  been  playin'  the  fool." 

The  meaning  of  her  words  leapt  at  him,  and  he 
stood  in  a  momentary  confusion.  It  was  as  if  he  were 
being  hit  in  many  places  at  once.  She,  Jenifer,  she 
had  played  the  fool — yes,  and  with  Pascoe  Corlyon. 
She — his,  Denny's  maid. 

Well,  he  hated  her  for  it,  the  bitch. 

This  came  of  putting  faith  in  a  woman.  He  knew 
what  maidens  were,  none  better  ;  but  Jenifer  .  .  . 

While  he,  the  silly  ass,  was  trusting  her  with  all 
his  heart,  she  was  carrying  on  with  Pascoe — Pascoe, 
who  was  everybody's  larbut.  The  blood  gathered 


THE  HAUNTING  127 

behind  his  eyes.  He  wanted  to  kill.  She  was  his,  and 
she  had  let  him  down. 

The  sun  shone  on  a  falling  teardrop.  Jenifer  had 
treated  him  badly,  yes,  but  she  had  had,  was  having, 
a  rotten  time.  She  was  having  the  same  sort  of  time 
as  he. 

Gor' — the  same  sort  of  time  !  And  she  need  not 
have  told  him.  Why  had  she  ?  She  wanted  to  make 
use  of  him  !  Ah — she  wanted  him  now.  Well,  she 
might  want.  He  was  not  going  to  father  another 
man's  brat,  not  he.  See  her  in  hell,  first  ! 

See  her  in  hell  ?  Jenifer  ?  No,  no.  They  were 
both  unhappy,  but  he  could  help,  and  he  wanted  to. 
Why,  when  she  was  a  little  maid  she  had  always  run 
to  him,  Denny,  when  the  others  teased  her.  They 
were  not  at  school  now,  but  it  was  the  same  thing, 
pretty  much. 

"  It  don't  make  no  odds,"  he  began,  and  was  sur- 
prised at  the  difficulty  he  found  in  speaking.  He 
could  not  get  the  words  up  his  dry  throat.  "  'Tis 
you "  he  and  Jenifer,  they  were  more  than  sweet- 
hearts. 

His  words  checked  the  flow  of  tears.  She  gazed 
at  him,  doubting,  unable  to  believe,  and  he  made  a 
quick  movement,  a  little  gesture  of  pity  and  protec- 
tion. His  maid,  his  poor  little  maid. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  oh,  Denny  !  " 

A  little  shakily  he  asked  her,  "  What  be  goin' 
do?" 

For  a  fortnight,  ay,  and  longer,  she  had  been  asking 
herself  that  question.  It  was  a  fortnight  since  Pascoe 
had  left  Stowe,  but  ever  since  she  had  known  for 
certain  how  it  was  with  her  she  had  wondered  what 
she  should  do  if  he  did  not  marry  her.  "  Emma 


128  THE  HAUNTING 

told  me — there's  women  can  help  you — time  like 
this.  They  say  Rebecca  French ' 

Manhire  put  his  arm  over  the  wall,  took  a  hand  that 
was  no  longer  refused  him,  took  it  in  a  warm,  hearten- 
ing clasp.  "  Now  don't,  my  dear,  don't  think  of 
such  a  thing." 

The  wall  was  low  with  a  round  coping  stone.  She 
let  him  draw  her  up  to  it,  was  glad  to  be  so  drawn. 
It  was  good  after  months  of  fear,  after  a  fortnight 
of  more  than  fear,  to  be  able  to  open  your  heart. 
"  I  don't  want  to  do  it,  Denny,  but— 

"  Do  Pascoe  knaw  ?  " 

"  He  didn't  ask,  and  I  didn't  say.  I  reckon  he 
guessed,  but  didn't  want  to  know." 

"  He  shen't,  then,  not  ever."  The  child  should  be 
his,  Denny  Manhire's.  To  think  of  it  thus,  eased  his 
heart  of  pain. 

"  Last  minute,  I  thought  I  must  tell  him  .  .  .  and 
I  went  down  to  the  house.  They  would  not  open 
the  door,  but  I  could  not  be  kept  out.  I  went  in 
back  door,  and  he  was  on  settle,  foxin'." 

"  Foxin'  ?  " 

"  Aw — I  could  tell  he  was  not  asleep.  He  was  not 
snoring  natural,  and  his  breath  caught  as  if  he  was 
listening  to  us.  You  see,  Mr.  Corlyon  would  not 
let  me  pass." 

"  Why  wouldn't  he  ?  " 

"  Don't  know  for  why  exactly.  Perhaps  he  did 
not  want  me  to  marry  Pascoe." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Well — men's  funny."  He  had  not  wanted  her  to 
marry  Pascoe  because  he  had  wanted  her  himself. 
He  had,  then  ;  and  it  was  such  a  little  while  ago, 
yet  now,  he  wanted  her  mother ! 


THE  HAUNTING  129 

Denny  saw  she  was  not  going  to  answer  his  question. 
"  Then,  what  about  your  mother  ?  " 

Jenifer's  fingers,  hitherto  lying  slackly  in  his  clasp, 
suddenly  took  hold.  "  Mammy  ?  "  Even  Mammy 
had  her  own  life,  and  other  people's  troubles,  Jenifer's, 
were  outside  it.  "  She'm  more  taken  up  with  Mr. 
Corlyon  than  she  is  with  me.  I  believe  they'll  marry." 

Pascoe  gone,  her  mother  occupied  with  her  own 
concerns — life  was,  indeed,  a  desert  !  She  felt  that 
she  stood  alone,  friendless  except  for  little  Denny 
Manhire  .  .  .  and  he  was  looking  at  her  so  kindly. 

"  Jenifer,"  he  said,  "  don't  you  do  nothing  you 
will  live  to  repent.  Let  your  baby  come  out  to  the 
light." 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully.  "  'Tis  what  I  should 
like  to  do."  She  could  feel  it  warm  in  her  arms,  and 
she  did  not  belong  to  have  it,  but,  oh  yes,  she  must. 
*'  The  li'l  darling,  I  do  dearly  love —  "  she  must  not 
say  that  she  had  played  with  the  thought  of  hers, 
loving  it  and  longing  for  it,  but  always  afraid  .  .  . 
"  I  do  dearly  love  babies." 

He,  too,  he  loved  them.  A  home  without  children  ? 
Why,  'twas  the  children  made  it  home.  He  let  his 
thoughts  turn  to  the  future — there  would  be  the 
little  one  that  was  coming,  and  then  others,  his  and 
hers.  The  rooms  over  the  stable  would  be  full  of 
jolly  noise.  Trust  him,  the  first  little  chap  should  be 
made  welcome,  should  have  his  share. 

"  Your  mother  may  be  vexed  about  it  when  she 
do  knaw,  but  she'll  stand  by  you,  and  we'll  get 
married  at  once,  and  all  will  be  for  the  best." 

He  was  for  shouldering  her  burden.  A  brave, 
jonik  little  chap,  but  she  must  not  take  advantage 
of  him.  People  had  not  treated  her  well — at  least, 


180  THE  HAUNTING 

one  person  had  not,  but  that  was  no  reason  for  behav- 
ing badly  to  Denny. 

For  a  moment  she  stood,  pulling  herself  together. 
Somehow,  the  hand  that  had  clasped  hers  was  round 
her  waist.  She  drew  herself  away.  "  I  don't  want 
for  you  to  marry  me  out  of  pity.  There's  more  boys 
in  the  world  that  'ud  have  me,  even  if  I  have  got  a 
child.  Don't  think  I  can't  manage  without  you." 

He  pulled  her  back.  "  Maybe  there's  more  boys 
for  you,  Jenifer,  but  there's  no  other  maid  for  me." 


CHAPTER  XII 


MR.  CORLYON  raised  his  hat,  which  had  a  little  more 
curl  to  the  brim  that  that  of  other  men,  and  Mrs. 
Liddicoat  watched  him  walk  away  down  the  street, 
saw  him  look  back  when  the  street  became  Quayside, 
saw  him  enter  by  the  discreet  gate  in  the  whitewashed 
wall.  She  thought  that  faintly,  above  the  swishing 
of  the  sea-water  in  the  harbour  basin,  she  heard  the 
closing  of  a  door. 

Her  heart  went  with  him  into  the  Brown  House, 
and  up  the  stairs,  and  into  the  room  where  he  would 
sleep  ;  where,  presently,  she  too  would  sleep.  She 
was  possessed  by  tingling  excitement  and,  under  that, 
lay  a  deep  warmth. 

He  had  said  :  "  Till  Pascoe  went,  till  he  left  me 
for  good  and  all,  I  had  not  realized  I  was  a  lonely 
man."  And  later  :  "I  want  someone  in  the  house 
with  me  ;  someone  to  come  back  to  of  an  evening." 

Not  lover-like,  but  he  did  love  her.  He  had  put 
his  arms  round  her,  roughly  and  clumsily,  in  proper 
man's  fashion,  and  had  hugged  her.  Again  and  again. 
He  had  given  her  lover's  kisses,  and  the  simple  hearty 
kisses  of  affection. 

Behind  her  in  the  house,  she  heard  Jenifer  locking 
doors  and  windows,  but  she  did  not  stir.  It  was  not 
often  in  her  busy  life  that  she  could  spare  a  moment ; 


132       •  THE  HAUNTING 

but  to-night,  when  happiness  had  come  to  her,  she 
could  not  go  in,  not  yet. 

The  inequalities  of  the  opposite  roofs  were  dark 
against  a  silver  sky,  and  she  looked  past  these  familiar 
outlines,  lifting  up  her  heart.  To  have  thought  life 
was  over  as  far  as  love  went  !  Why,  the  love  she  had 
had  for  her  young  sweethearts,  for  her  husband,  had 
been,  compared  with  this,  as  lamps  in  a  street,  small 
things  at  best.  Yes,  small  bright  things,  but  now  that 
the  sky  had  lightened  for  her,  no  longer  bright. 
Those  early  loves — she  looked  back,  seeing  them  at 
last  with  understanding.  They  had  been  sweet  and 
worth  while,  they  had  had  to  do  with  babies,  with 
home-making,  with  the  business  of  living.  A  mixture 
of  emotions,  that  early  loving,  but  this  late-come 
feeling  was  different,  being  the  love  of  one  human 
creature  for  another.  She  thought  of  the  tide  in  the 
harbour.  The  tide,  the  tide  of  life,  had  flowed  over 
and  hidden  her  real  self.  On  its  bosom  had  rocked 
a  strange  medley  of  craft,  and  she,  under  the  surface 
bustle,  the  passage  of  the  ships,  she  had  slept.  Now 
the  tide  had  ebbed,  and  ebbing,  had  carried  the  flotsam 
seaward.  She  had  been  left  free  of  foreign  craft ; 
and  to  her  had  come  the  soft  wind  and  the  down- 
shining  stars,  and  the  enfolding  night.  He  had  come, 
the  man  whom  she  might  love  through  the  quiet 
years,  the  years  that  remained.  She  had  slept  till 
his  kiss  had  awakened  her. 

But — could  she  accept  what  offered  ?  Did  she 
dare  ?  She  was  middle-aged,  her  body  had  been  given 
her  to  use,  and  she  had  put  it  to  its  natural  uses. 
How  she  wished  she  had  again  her  virginal  breast. 
His  head,  the  weight  of  that  precious  head  on  a  breast 
worthy  of  it  !  No,  she  had  not  that  to  give. 


THE   HAUNTING  133 

Falteringly,  she  had  spoken  to  him  about  her  age. 
The  words  had  been  difficult  to  say.  Her  cheeks  had 
grown  hot,  as  hot  as  if  she  had  been  blushing.  But 
he — oh,  the  dear  of'n — it  was  as  if  he  did  not  see 
the  white  in  her  hair  and  the  lines  ;  he  had  looked 
through  them  at — was  it  at  her  ? 

"  I  know  how  old  you  are,"  he  had  said.  Of -course 
he  knew.  His  life  and  her  life,  every  year  of  them, 
had  been  spent  in  Stowe,  near  Stowe. 

"  I  know  how  old  you  are,  and  it  does  not  matter." 

He  never  uttered  other  than  the  truth.  Not,  of 
course,  the  real  truth,  but  the  truth  as  he  saw  it. 
She  could  depend  on  his  sincerity.  To  him,  then, 
strange  as  it  might  seem,  the  lines  and  the  silver 
threads  were  of  no  importance. 

Wonderful  that,  for  Mr.  Corlyon  was  held  to  be  an 
appreciator  of  beauty,  of  soft,  frail  beauty.  So  stiff 
himself,  he  had  been  attracted  by  weakness.  He  had 
not  married,  but  he  might  have.  Yes,  there  had 
always  been  women. 

That  sort  of  woman. 

Morwenna  Liddicoat  had  not  thought  he  had  it 
in  him  to  love,  not  really  love.  Any  man  could  make 
love — seed  thrown  by  the  wayside  which  would 
spring  up,  throw  a  gaudy  blossom,  and  wither  away  ! 

But — love. 

Deep,  warm,  big,  filling  you  as  a  vessel  is  filled, 
making  you  feel^as  you  felt  sometimes  in  church. 
The  love  of  God".  .  . 

She  was  to  give  up  the  baby-linen  shop.  He  wanted 
her  to  go  to  him,  and  she  would.  He  had  only  to 
fix  the  date.  She  was  ready — now. 

She  had  lived  for  many  years  on  the  edge  of  the 
street.  The  river  of  Stowe  life  had  splashed  her 


134  THE  HAUNTING 

drexel.  She  had  had  the  amusement  of  its  constant 
variety,  but  the  time  had  come  to  put  up  the  shutters. 
She  laughed  at  herself — at  the  itch  in  her  fingers  to 
have  those  shutters  up  ! 

He  had  said  she  might  have  a  maid  to  help  her 
with  the  work  of  the  house.  She  !  He  did  not  realize 
— the  dear — how  already,  though  his  love-making 
was  only  the  hour  old,  she  was  looking  forward  to 
the  day  when  she  would  cook  his  meals,  sweep  up  the 
mud  his  boots  brought  into  their  house — their — 
scold  him  a  little  so  that  he  should  be  made  to  see 
that  she  was  there,  yes,  there,  and,  working  for  him, 
loving  him. 

She  could  cook — none  to  beat  her  in  Stowe — and 
she  would  give  him  tasty  meals,  and  have  the  joy 
of  seeing  him  eat  what  she  had  got  ready.  She  knew 
what  he  liked.  The  Thursday  night  suppers  had 
taught  her. 

The  thinking  out,  the  getting  ready  of  that  meal 
had  been  the  chief  pleasure  of  her  week.  Now  she 
would  have  it,  not  once  a  week,  but  every  day.  She 
would  go  out  to  buy  the  food,  to  buy  it  with  his 
money,  with  the  money  he  made,  that  he  spent  the 
day  making,  that  he  made  for  her. 

As  to  her  money — Jenifer  could  have  what  had 
come  from  Peter,  and  she  would  hand  over  the  rest, 
the  farm  her  father  left  her,  to  Gale. 

She,  Morwenna  Liddicoat,  wanted  to  be  dependent 
on  her  man,  to  go  to  him,  and  say,  "  Give  me  so  much 
for  the  marketing."  She  thought  of  him  counting 
the  shillings  into  her  hand,  thought  of  the  joy  it 
would  be  to  bargain  with  them,  spend  with  grudging 
care,  spend  as  little  as  possible.  Those  shillings,  because 
he  had  earned  them,  they  would  have  a  special  value. 


THE  HAUNTING  185 

"  Mammy,  Mammy,  bain't  you  never  coming  to 
bed  ?  " 

The  lap-lapping  of  the  tide  made  an  accompani- 
ment to  her  dreams.  He  would  be  asleep  by  now, 
asleep  in  the  room  that  looked  over  the  water  towards 
the  east.  The  sound  of  his  laugh,  rough  with  a  sort 
of  catch,  was  still  in  her  ear.  Or  was  it  in  her  heart  ? 
She  stepped  back.  Really,  she  must  not  stay  there 
wasting  her  time. 

When  she  came  to  turn  the  key  in  the  front  door, 
she  hesitated.  Lock  him  out  ?  Put  a  bolt  between 
them  ?  No,  never  again.  She  had  slept  all  locked 
up  inside  herself  until  he  roused  her  to  answer  him, 
to  open. 

If  she  were  to  leave  the  door  on  the  latch  ?  But 
how  about  tramps — a  tramp  ?  Well — not  many  in 
Stowe,  and  besides,  how  was  a  tramp  to  guess  that 
one  of  the  respectable  doors  of  the  street  was  on  the 
latch  ? 

Not  that  Gale  would  want  to  come  at  any  odd  hour. 
Only,  she  felt  she  could  not  turn  that  key.  Day  and 
night,  never  again  should  there  be  between  them 
bolt  or  bar. 


ii 

"  Mammy,  I  been  waitin'  for  you." 

"  Have  'ee,  my  dear  ?  " 

Mrs.  Liddicoat  had  taken  but  a  little  time  to  slip 
out  of  her  clothes  and  into  bed.  She  would  go  back 
to  her  dreaming,  and  so  sleep. 

"  I  got  something  to  tell  you." 

Must  Jenifer  break  in  with  uninteresting  outside 
talk  ?  Her  mother  did  not  want  the  thread  of  her 


186  THE   HAUNTING 

thoughts  snapped,  her  attention  diverted.  "I  be 
tired." 

"  O— Mammy  !  " 

An  arresting  note  in  the  child's  voice.  Mrs. 
Liddicoat  turned  on  the  pillow.  "  What  is  it,  dear  ?  " 

"  I  got  to  get  married." 

Ah! 

But  she  had  guessed — half  guessed  it.  She  had 
not  quite  believed  it.  Her  Jenifer  !  Other  women's 
maids,  but  not  hers. 

"  You — got — to — get — married  ?  "  She  was  saying 
to  herself  that  a  forced  "  put  "  was  no  choice. 

"  Mammy  !  "  Jenifer  sat  up,  clasping  her  knees. 
"  When  you  was  young " 

Mrs.  Liddicoat's  thoughts  flew  to  old  sweethearts, 
to  the  love-making  of  what  seemed  only  yesterday. 

"  Honest  men  make  honest  women.  You  was 
born  in  wedlock." 

"  Mightn't  have  been." 

Heavens  !  what  would  the  child  say  next  ?  And 
if  she  had  listened  to  Willy  Hosken  ;  even  if — but 
this  was  profitless. 

"  And  my  chield'll  be  born  in  wedlock." 

"  Who's  goin'  father  it  for  'ee  then  ?  " 

"  You  don't  know  ?  " 

"  Aw,  I  can  guess,"  and  because  it  would  be  Pascoe's 
child  she  was  partly  reconciled. 

"  I  fixed  it  up  to-night  wi' — wi'  Denny  Manhire." 

Denny  Manhire  ?  A  good  little  workchap.  Jenifer 
might  have  done  worse.  No  happiness  for  any  maid 
with  come-and-go  Pascoe  ;  and — she  would  have 
his  child. 

Mrs.  Liddicoat  was  conscious  of  confused  longing 
— his  child  1  She  might  never  look  to  hold  a  child 


THE  HAUNTING  137 

of  Gale's  against  her  bosom.  They  were  past  that. 
A  good  thing,  and  yet — ah,  well,  there  would  be  this 
little  one,  his  brother's  child.  It  might  be  like  him  . . . 

"  You  was  so  taken  up  with  Mr.  Corlyon  you  didn't 
see  us  in  the  garden." 

The  wall  at  the  end  was  low,  and  Denny  not  the 
first  of  Jenifer's  lovers  to  have  vaulted  it.  But  it 
was  to  be  Denny  in  the  end,  well,  well ! 

"  'Tis  all  right  then  ?  "  Jenifer  would  marry,  and 
she  would  miss  her,  but — because  of  her  love  for  Mr. 
Corlyon,  her  personal  happiness — not  so  veryfcmuch. 

Jenifer  turned  away,  drew  the  clothes|over  her, 
hunched  a  shoulder.  "  'Tedn't  all  right,"  she  said, 
with  a  sort  of  violence,  "  but  'tis  the  best  I  can  do." 


in 

"  Let  us  go  out  for  a  bit." 

Mrs.  Liddicoat's  back  room  was  the  most  comfort- 
able place  Mr.  Corlyon  knew,  and  yet .  He  glanced 

at  Jenifer  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the  table. 
It  was  impossible  to  talk  before  her,  also  .  .  .  well, 
he  could  not  stand  that  continual  reminder.  To  see 
her  for  [a  few  minutes,  even  sit  with  her  through  a 
meal,  yes,  that  was  all  right.  It  was  afterwards, 
when  she  got  out  her  work  and  sat  with  it  under  the 
shower  of  lamplight,  that  in  the  dark  pool  of  his 
mind  the  ooze  began  to  crawl  with  life. 

It  rose  to  the  surface,  and  he  could  not  help  himself, 
he  had  to  relive  the  scenes  through  which  he  had 
passed  that  night.  They  rose,  they  detached  them- 
selves, they  passed  in  procession.  Vivid  against 
the  blackness,  sharp,  clear  ...  so  much  more  vivid 
than  when  he  had  been  living  them.  Then  he  had 


138  THE  HAUNTING 

been  ignorant  of  what  would  happen  next ;  had  been 
living  in  the  moment.  He  knew,  now,  what  must 
come. 

He  had  struggled  with  himself  before  he  spoke. 
His  boasted  self-control,  where  was  it  ?  He  would 
think  of  nothing  but  the  game  of  cards  that  he  was 
playing,  he  would  forget  Jenifer  was  in  the  room  ! 
He  looked  at  his  hand,  but  beyond  it  shone  the  bright 
hair.  He  moved  his  seat,  but  could  not  forget  that 
it  was  behind  his  shoulder.  The  effort  to  forget 
only  made  the  memories  nore  insistent.  He  was 
back  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Brown  House.  His  body 
grew  tense,  he  was  struggling  with  Pascoe,  ah,  Jenifer's 
face  at  the  window  .  .  .  What  had  she  seen  ?  To 
this  day  he  did  not  know. 

The  sound  of  those  slowing,  difficult  breaths — and 
Jenifer  trying  to  pass,  to  get  to  Pascoe.  God,  if 
she  did  not  go  he  would  kill  her,  he  could  not  stand  it, 
no,  not  a  moment  longer.  His  hand  twitched  .  .  . 
a  knife  on  the  supper-table  .  .  . 

"  One  for  his  nob,"  Mrs.  Liddicoat  had  said,  recalling 
him  to  the  present. 

Blinking,  he  came  back  to  the  little  room,  and  her 
kindly  presence,  to  the  fingers  scoring  a  point  on  the 
cribbage  board. 

Thank  goodness,  Jenifer  was  to  be  married  as  soon 
as  the  banns  had  been  called.  Meanwhile,  how  could 
he  sit  in  the  room  with  her  ?  "  Let  us  go  out  for  a 
bit  ?  " 

If  a  little  surprised,  Mrs.  Liddicoat  was  willing — oh, 
more  than  willing.  He  was  anything  but  a  restless  man, 
yet  he  might  feel  he  wanted  her  to  himself.  She 
thrilled  with  the  hope  of  kisses,  of  more  than  kisses. 

"  We'll  go  up  to  Coulter's  Folly,"  he  said  as  they 


THE  HAUNTING  139 

stepped  into  the  mirk  of  the  street.  They  would  go 
up  the  little  lane  behind  the  houses,  the  lane  in  which 
Stowe  folk  had  courted  before  ever  the  mud  cabins 
of  the  first  comers  had  changed  from  clob  to  country 
stone. 

The  dark  figures  turned  by  the  garden  of  the  Brown 
House  on  Quayside,  turned  up  between  the  white 
walls  and  overtopping  shrubs.  Very  few  people  were 
abroad  that  evening,  possibly  because  a  droll-teller 
had  gathered  them  in  Nancarrow's  barn. 

"  We  will  go  slowly,"  said  he,  warm  in  his  coat,  "  and 
we  will  keep  in  the  shadow  of  the  tamarisk.  It  is 
lovely  to  be  out  here  and  by  ourselves." 

Venturing  greatly,  she  took  his  arm.  He  pressed 
her  hand  to  his  side  ;  then,  shifting,  put  his  arm  round 
her  shoulders  and  bent  his  head.  "  I  want  you  all 
to  myself,"  he  murmured. 

"  You  can't  want  it  so  much  as  I." 

She  lifted  her  face  in  happy,  thrilled  expectancy. 
JHis  lips  closed  on  hers,  on  warm  strong  lips  which 
were  yet  soft,  and  into  him  passed  a  sense  of  healing. 
This  love  which  was  about  him  like  an  atmosphere 
was  giving  him  something  of  which  he  stood  in  need. 

She  had  pushed  evil  memories,  the  trouble  and 
sickness  of  them,  out  of  his  mind.  Alone  with  her  he 
was  himself  again,  his  old  strong  self,  the  self  that 
went  about  calmly,  peacefully.  He  had  been  solitary, 
but  happy.  Now  after  a  time  of  discomfort,  of  ob- 
session, he  was  once  more  happy.  And  it  was  in  somet 
deep  way  due  to  her. 

They  climbed  the  hill  slowly  and  as  they  walked 
he  leaned  over  her,  kissing  her  again  and  again, 
kissing  her  with  a  passion  new  to  her  experience. 

The  night  was  about  them  and  Morwenna's  face 


140  THE  HAUNTING 

was  turned  to  him.  She  was  learning  that  the  night 
had  been  made  for  lovers,  that  she,  even  she,|who  for 
ten  years  had  been  lonely — nay,  who  all  her^life  had 
been  lonely,  that  she  loved  and  was  loved.  Above  in 
the  dark  heavens,  flowed  the  silver  of  the  Mi?ky  Way, 
behind  them  in  the  little  houses  was  the  drama  of  life. 
They  came  to  the  verge  of  Coulter's  Folly,  to  the  top 
of  the  antient  earth,  and  felt  that  they  were  alive 
because  they  loved. 

Leaning  against  him  in  the  shadow  of  the  tamarisk 
she  gave  herself  to  his  passionate  hands.  "  Say  you 
love  me,"  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


LEAVING  his  papers  for  the  night,  Mr.  Corlyon  went 
to  his  armchair.  He  was  cramped  by  sitting  at  his 
desk.  He  had  spent  the  morning  at  a  sale,  the  after- 
noon stooping  over  deeds,  and  it  was  good  to  lean 
back,  stretch  his  long  legs  across  the  rug. 

His  eyes  ached.     He  would  take  it  easy  for  a  little. 

His  mind  was  still  running  on  the  deeds.  It  was 
a  case  of  property  changing  hands,  property  that  had 
an  old  mortgage  on  it.  For  all  that  the  Pendragons 
were  so  well  known,  he  would  not  be  content  without  a 
release.  He  must  see  their  agent.  Perhaps,  to- 
morrow .  .  . 

When  land  changed  hands,  there  was  money  in  the 
transaction,  a  bit  for  everybody  concerned  ;  and, 
seeing  that  Pascoe  had  helped  himself  to  his,  Gale's 
savings  .  .  . 

But  Pascoe  hadn't.  The  pigskin  bags  in  the  old 
chest  were  as  fat  as  ever.  He  knew  although  he  had 
not  been  into  the  cave  since  that  night. 

Oh,  damn — he  did  not  want  to  think  of  the  dark  rows, 
replete,  covered  with  the  holland.  To  act  a  part  you 
must  believe  in  the  actuality  of  what  you  were  saying 
and  doing.  Pascoe  was  gone  to  Jamaica,  he  had  laid 
greedy  violent  hands  on  Gale's  money  and  Gale  was 
now  a  poor  man.  The  chest  was  empty  of  everything 
but  flat  leathern  bags  and  a  piece  of  holland.  As  Gale 

141 


142  THE   HAUNTING 

had  no  longer  any  savings  there  was  no  need  to  padlock 
the  iron  bands,  the  low  black  door. 

But  they  happened  to  be  fastened — very  well,  let 
them  stay  as  they  were. 

At  any  rate  there  was  nothing  behind  that  door 
which  interested  him  sufficiently  to  take  him  down  the 
slippery  stairs  and  across  the  cellar.  A  few  bottles  of 
wine  and — ah — in  the  corner 

He  had  forgotten  Pascoe's  dunnage.  He  should 
have  carried  it  through  the  fogou,  buried  it  ;  yes,  he 
should  have  done  it  that  night.  Now  it  lay  behind 
the  forty-gallon  cask — a  ditty-box,  clothes.  Nonsense, 
he  had  the  keys  in  his  pocket,  and  Pascoe  was  on  his 
way  to  the  West  Indies,  clothes  and  all.  Only  that 
morning  Antiks  had  asked  him  if  he  thought  "  young 
Maister's  "  ship  had  reached  Kingston. 

He  had  studied  the  shipping  list,  told  her  Pascoe 
must  have  arrived,  that  by  now  he  was  probably 
married.  They  must  not  expect  letters,  not  yet  awhile. 
He  would  be  too  busy  to  write. 

He  believed  it,  he  was  acting  up  to  his  belief  .  .  . 
it  was  the  only  safe  thing  to  do. 


ii 

Though  his  eyes  ached  they  did  not  close.  After 
his  day's  work  he  ought  to  have  been  ready  for  a 
snooze  before  he  took  his  supper.  Odd  that  he  was 
not,  for  he  had  not  been  sleeping  well.  Dreams, 
broken  slumbers,  long  hours  of  restlessness  ! 

He  was,  nowadays,  too  wide  awake,  too  much  alive 
and  it  was  tiring.  A  good  deal  could  be  said  in  favour 
of  dullness  !  A  certain  comfort  in  spending  your  days 
working,  eating,  sleeping,  in  spending  them  temper- 


THE  HAUNTING  143 

ately.  Temperance  in  living  meant  a  continual  sense 
of  well-being.  He  had  awakened  to  it  of  a  morning 
after  quiet  sleep.  He  had  taken  it  with  him  through 
the  full,  but  not  over-full,  hours  of  daylight.  It  had 
been  with  him  not  only  all  day  but  every  day. 

He  was  conscious  of  an  unwelcome  change.  He, 
hitherto  so  quiet  and  self-contained,  had  grown  eager, 
excitable.  All  day  long  he  was  doing  things,  all  night 
he  was  thinking  of  more  things  to  do.  He  seemed  to 
think  at  a  great  rate,  to  be  fevered  with  thought.  It 
was  strange  and  also  it  was  distressing.  Only  when  he 
was  with  Morwenna  Liddicoat  did  the  peace  to  which 
he  was  accustomed  re-enter  his  soul ;  but  as  he 
stooped  to  her  doorway,  he  found  that  his  mind,  con- 
tinually bubbling,  grew  calm ;  and  as  she  talked  to 
him,  caressing  him  with  her  words,  creating  an  atmo- 
sphere of  passionate  affection,  the  unrest  gradually 
sank.  He  was  like  a  kettle  of  boiling  water  that  has 
been  taken  off  the  fire.  The  fierce  tumult  slackened, 
died  and  he  went  from  her  in  the  old  pleasant  quietude ; 
and  he  took  the  thought  of  her  with  him  like  a  flower, 
he  slept  with  the  scent  of,  it  in  his  nostrils.  Those 
nights  he  did  not  dream. 

"  Have  you  noticed  my  mole  is  gone  ?  "  she  had 
asked  him,  and  he  remembered  that  once  upon  a  time 
she  had  had  a  mole,  a  mole  with  hairs.  He  had  thought 
it  repulsive. 

"  I  had  forgotten  you  had  one.'* 

"  I  went  to  the  teller  and  had  it  charmed  and  last 
week  it  dropped  off." 

She  showed  him  her  cheek,  smooth,  unscarred. 

He  thought  that  if  she  had  had  fifty  moles,  he  would 
hardly  have  seen  them,  and  that  he  supposed  was 
love.  He  had  never  felt  for  a  woman  what  he  felt 


144  THE   HAUNTING 

for  Morwenna.  Always  he  had  had  an  eye  for  the 
pretty  maids  .  .  .  for  their  intriguing  ankles  !  He 
would  have  liked  to  kiss  this  one,  go  yet  further  with 
that. 

He  found  that  since  he  had  known  he  loved  Mor- 
wenna, he  no  longer  looked  after  strangers  with  desire. 

in 

He  felt  unusually  tired.  He  had  been  busy,  so 
busy  he  had  not  seen  Morwenna  for  three  days.  Per- 
haps it  was  that.  The  remedy  was  simple,  he  would 
go  over  that  evening. 

Jenifer  was  to  be  married  the  following  week  and 
after  that  Morwenna  would  come  to  him.  She,  too, 
had  been  busy.  Apparently  when  a  maid  married 
many  things  had  to  be  bought  and  made.  Morwenna 
had  not  neglected  him,  but  she  had  been — well,  just 
a  little  too  much  occupied  with  her  daughter.  Thank 
goodness,  Jenifer  was  going  to  live  at  Caer.  Five 
miles  away  !  She  could  not  be  running  in  every  day, 
taking  up  her  mother's  time.  He  wanted  Morwenna 
to  himself. 

The  consequence  of  her  being  occupied  with  pre- 
parations for  the  wedding  meant  that  he  had  been 
left  to  his  own  devices  ;  and  he  had  thrown  himself 
too  heavily  into  his  work.  He  had  thought  of 
nothing  else. 

Had  he  not  ? 

Well,  he  had  tried  to  avoid  thinking  of  certain 
things,  and  to  do  so  had  thrust  not  merely  a  finger 
into  other  people's  concerns. 

He  was  used  up,  tired  out  and  yet  restless.  He  had 
overdone  it.  Perhaps  if  he  were  to  take  a  glass  of 
wine 


THE  HAUNTING  145 

He  glanced  at  the  sideboard,  but  the  broad  maho- 
gany counter  ran,  smoothly  polished,  from  the  sharp 
edge  to  the  foliated  back.  He  thought  it  did  and  yet- 
Had  he,  within  the  last  hour  or  so,  fetched  wine 
from  the  cave,  decanted  it,  left  it  on  the  sideboard, 
left  it  ...  ready  ? 

A  trick  of  memory — oh,  those  ghastly  tricks  ! 
He  had  not  got  up  any  wine  since  .  .  .  since  .  .  . 
damn  it  all,  he  had  had  no  wine  since  he  decanted  the 
bottles  for  Pascoe.  There  could  not  be  any  on  the 
sideboard.  Well,  then — that  faint  glitter  as  of  glass — 
what  was  it  ?  Had  Antiks  left  a  tumbler  ? 

But  he  remembered  that  when  he  had  crossed  to  his 
desk  early  in  the  afternoon,  the  slab  of  polished  wood 
had  been  bare.  Yet,  on  the  sideboard,  dim,  hardly 
visible 

He  sat  up,  straining  his  eyes  to  see  through  the  blue 
dusk,  through  the  flicker  of  the  uncertain  firelight. 
A  shudder  ran  down  his  spine  and  it  became  all  at 
once  necessary — in  some  vitally  important  way  neces- 
sary— that  he  should  prove  himself  mistaken.  The 
jutting  wings  of  the  sideboard  threw  an  even  darkness 
across  the  counter  and  in  that  gloom  was,  he  felt  sure 
there  was — nothing. 

A  faintly  bright  outline  ?  Nonsense  !  And  yet — 
but  he  wanted  to  think  it  was  not  there.  It  could 
not  be. 

He  had  watched  Antiks  set  his  two  decanters  on  the 
shelf  in  the  china  cupboard.  Afterwards  he  had 
locked  the  door,  taken  the  key. 

No  use  denying  that  he  saw  a  dim  shape,  a  shape 
reflecting  tiny  rainbow  gleams.     A  pricking  sensation 
caught  his  neck,  a  tingle  as  of  rising  hairs.     He  was 
not  seeing  a  decanter,  but  a  small  cut-glass  flagon, 
K 


146  THE   HAUNTING 

The  flagon  had  been  washed  and  put  away.  It  was 
standing  on  the  shelf  in  the  china  cupboard. 

He  recognized  it,  admitted  to  himself  the  fact,  and 
his  heart  seemed  to  turn  over,  he  felt  sick.  Leaning 
his  head  on  his  hands,  he  shut  his  eyes.  It  was  there, 
the  little  flagon,  actually  there. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  quite  still.  He  was  faint 
and  he  must  wait  till  he  grew  better.  The  shadows 
thickened.  Outside,  the  lamplighter,  trolling  an  old 
song,  went  up  the  street.  He  would  go  up  French 
Street,  past  the  baby-linen  shop,  he  would  see — 

Ah,  if  he,  Gale,  could  have  seen  Morwenna,  if  he 
could  have  laid  his  head  on  that  kind  bosom.  She 
would  have  cherished  him,  obliterated  this  dread. 
He  would  have  drawn  from  her  the  help  [he  needed  at 
the  moment,  the  strength  to  face  this  thing.  Ac- 
knowledging its  existence,  he  must  try  to  understand, 
so  that  he  could  deal  with  it. 

Getting  out  of  his  chair,  he  walked  to  the  sideboard, 
stared  through  the  mocking  shadows. 

Faint,  clear,  the  red-brown  of  the  mahogany 
showing  through  its  upper  half,  the  flagon  stood  up- 
right on  the  counter — a  little  flagon  of  cut  glass  ! 

The  room  heaved  about  him — for  the  flagon  was 
half-full  of  thick  red  wine. 


IV 

He  had  put  out  a  twitching  hand,  but  his  fingers 
had  passed  through  the  appearance,  had  touched  the 
mahogany  at  the  back.  Once  more  he  shut  his  eyes, 
but  this  time  it  was  in  the  hope  of  destroying  an  illu- 
sion. It  had  been  a  fancy,  had  sprung  from  over- 
wrought  nerves,  it  was  not  really  a  something  on  his. 


THE   HAUNTING  147 

sideboard.  When  he  looked  again  it  would  have 
vanished  and  he  would  laugh.  To  have  imagined 
such  a  thing,  he,  of  all  people,  he  who  had  kept  his 
mind  free  of  the  country  beliefs,  who  was  of  all  Stowe 
the  most  sceptical  ! 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  it  was  still  there,  a  film  of 
glass,  of  wine. 

A  figment  ?  He  swept  his  hand  across  the  board. 
If  he  could  he  would  push  the  flagon  .off,  hear  it  crash 
on  the  planching,  see  it  in  fragments  .  .  . 

His  hand  felt  cold.  It  was  as  if  a  dank  air  had  been 
breathed  on  it — but  the  appearance  persisted,  the 
wraith  of  a  little  flagon  which  held  a  wine-glassful  of 
liquor.  It  stood  on  his  sideboard,  as  it  had  stood  in 
substantial  fact  the  night  that  Pascoe — went. 

It  was,  of  course,  an  hallucination  ;  and  hallucina- 
tions were  a  matter  of  health.  He  turned  away,  made 
up  the  fire,  lighted  the  lamp  Antiks  had  placed  in 
readiness  on  the  table,  stood  for  quite  five  minutes 
with  his  back  to  the  sideboard,  occupied  the  five 
minutes  thinking  of  the  deeds,  the  mortgage  on  the 
property — 

Turning — he  saw  the  sideboard  in  the  full  light  of 
the  lamp,  came  to  it  with  a  mind  refreshed.  It  would 
be  bare,  he  knew  it  would.  There  was  nothing  on  it, 
nothing  .  .  .  Oh,  but,  wait  a  moment  !  Not  the 
glitter  of  cut  glass  and  yet  .  .  . 

White,  misty,  a  mere  outline,  the  frailest  of  appear- 
pnces,  but — he  struck  the  board  with  his  clenched 
hand — but  it  was  there. 


This  came  of  not  keeping  a  tight  rein  on  his  fancies. 
It  stood  to  reason  that  what  he  saw  so  clearly  with  his 


148  THE   HAUNTING 

mental  vision  he  might  come  to  think  was  tangible— 
that  is,  if  he  allowed  himself  to  dwell  on  it. 

Undoubtedly  the  flagon  was  an  illusion.  That  he 
must  admit,  but  what  he  could  not  understand  was 
why,  if  he  must  have  illusions,  they  should  take  this 
form.  He  had  not  been  thinking  of  the  flagon. 
Until  that  night  he. had  forgotten  the  part  it  had 
played.  A  sequence  of  scenes  had  crossed  and 
recrossed  the  stage  of  his  mind — Pascoe  lifting  his 
glass  that  last  time  and  so  on,  but  no  thought  of 
the  flagon.  Yet  the  appearance  must— he  would 
not  admit  the  doubt — it  must  have  come  from  his 
mind. 

It  could  not  be  a  thing  in  itself. 

It  had  sprung  from  his  mind,  could  consequently 
only  be  seen  by  him.  It  was  not  actually  there,  an 
object  visible,  however  dimly,  to  other  people. 

He  rested  a  hand  on  the  mahogany  and  for  a 
moment  his  body  shook  with  sharp  foreboding  .  .  . 
visible,  that  flagon  half-full  of  wine,  visible  to  other 
people  !  Tales  of  hauntings — the  white  hare  that  he 
had  maintained  was  an  effect  of  moonlight,  the  patter, 
patter  as  you  came  back  from  the  crouched  burials 
at  Harlyn,  the  presence  on  the  stair  at  Trevone,  the 
H'ant  in  the  Little  Wood.  People  had  spoken  to  him 
of  these,  of  Susie  and  Edgar  "  piskie-led'n'  "  from 
Caer  to  Vorrick,  of  appearances  on  the  sea-commons, 
of  what  danced  on  the  road  up  at  Church  Town. 
They  had  told  and  he  had  listened,  but  he  had  been 
incredulous.  He  had  said  :  "  Till  I  see  [these  things 
for  myself  I  cannot  believe  in  them." 

He  had  thought  people  invented  the  tales.  Imagi- 
nation, twilight,  a  windy  stir,  and  the  white  hanging 
became  a  ghost  ! 


THE  HAUNTING  149 

Now  he  wondered,  did  not  feel  quite  so  certain. 
They  had  said  they  saw,  was  he  seeing  .  .  .  ? 

He  sat  down  on  the  nearest  chair.  His  glance 
travelled  about  the  room,  came  back  to  the  sideboard. 
How  if  the  appearance  should  be  a  wraith,  not  a  fig- 
ment of  his  mind,  but  an.  actual,  intangible  yet  visible, 
wraith  ? 

The  wraith  of  a  flagon,  perhaps  of  more  than  a 
flagon  .  .  . 

He  got  up  and  went  quickly  into  the  kitchen. 


VI 

The  cover-fire  stood  by  the  wall.  According  to 
domestic  usage  the  master  would  adjust  it  over  sod  and 
ember  the  last  thing  before  going  to  bed.  In  the 
morning  when  it  was  lifted  away,  the  turf  would  be 
still  burning. 

Mr.  Corlyon,  walking  quickly  through  the  dark, 
touched  it  accidentally,  and  the  piece  of  cumbrous 
copper  clattered  on  to  the  level.  Though  he  had 
himself  in  hand  the  noise  so  startled  him  that  a  hot 
flush  ran  over  his  body. 

He  stood  stockstill,  holding  on  to  himself.  It  was 
only  the  old  cover-fire  ! 

The  kitchen,  facing  west,  was  lighter  than  the  par- 
lour had  been.  The  red  of  sunset  glittered  on  the 
panes,  filled  the  room  with  a  warm  glow.  Mr.  Corlyon 
looked  about,  looked  searchingly,  looked  with  an 
unacknowledged  suspicion.  He  told  himself  that  he 
must  look  in  every  corner.  He  would  rather  not  have 
scanned  certain  parts,  but  he  forced  himself  to  be 
thorough. 

The  table  by  the  outer  wall  was  laid  for  supper,  the 


150  THE  HAUNTING 

settle  stood  to  the  left  of  the  hearth.  On  the  red 
cushion  of  the  settle — no.  For  a  moment  he  had 
fancied  .  .  . 

VII 

As  soon  as  he  had  eaten  his  supper,  he  would  walk 
up  to  the  baby-linen  shop.  He  would  like  to  go  in, 
stay.  Morwenna  was  a  sure  refuge  ;  her  sanity  put 
ridiculous  ideas  to  flight. 

A  chair  was  drawn  to  the  table,  but  he  did  not  take 
it.  He  could  not  sit  where  he  had  sat  that  night.  He 
could  not  sit  opposite  to — not  opposite  to  Pascoe  ! 
But  what  nonsense  .  .  . 

It  was  not  that  Pascoe  would  be  opposite,  but  that 
behind  would  be  the  settle.  Rubbish,  it  was  not  the 
settle  !  He  could  not  sit  with  his  back  to  a  hot  fire. 
He  had  never  been  able  to,  and  besides  the  master's 
place  was  at  the  end  of  the  table.  Yes,  but  not  the 
window  end.  If  he  sat  there  he  would  know  a  white 
face  was  looking  in  ...  ah,  but  he  could  pull  down 
the  blind. 

What  had  come  to  him  ?  The  settle,  the  face  at 
the  window  !  He  was  "  bevvering."  It  was  because 
of  the  appearance  in  the  parlour.  That  little  flagon, 
it  had  been  a  shock  to  his  nerves  ;  but  he  would  pull 
himself  together.  He  must,  or  there  was  no  knowing  . . . 

He  would  have  supper — not  that  he  was  hungry. 
After  such  an  experience  how  could  he  be  ?  And  the 
meat  was  tough.  He  must  speak  to  Antiks  about  it, 
tell  her  to  hang  it  longer,  she  always  thought  it  should 
be  eaten  as  soon  as  it  was  killed.  Pah  !  he  did  not 
want  to  eat,  but  he  must  or  it  would  look  strange.  He 
must  be  careful  not  to  do  anything  that  would  arouse 
suspicion. 


THE  HAUNTING  151 

Tough  meat  and  absolutely  no  appetite — it  was 
like  eating  sawdust,  but  he  must  get  it  down. 

He  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands,  disordered, 
uneasy  .  .  . 

What  had  happened  to  him  ?  He  had  killed  Pascoe 
because  such  a  man  was  better  out  of  the  world  than 
in,  because  he,  Gale  Corlyon>  had  felt  that  he  must. 
It  had  been  he  or  Pascoe,  and  he  had  won.  That  was 
all  there  was  to  it,  and  Pascoe's  burial  in  the  fogou 
should  have  ended  the  matter. 

It  had  ended  it,  but  he  was  out  of  sorts  and,  as  a 
consequence,  his  imagination  had  run  away  with 
him.  Only  natural  that  it  should. 

That  cut-glass  flagon — he  knew  it  was  safe  in  the 
china  cupboard,  but  he  would  make  sure  of  it.  He 
unlocked  the  door,  and,  of  course — there  it  was  ! 
It  stood  in  its  immemorial  place  beside  the  decanters, 
a  little  deeply-cut  vessel  of  old  glass.  That  on  the 
sideboard  had  been  an  illusion.  He  put  his  hand  on 
the  flagon.  Good  to  feel  the  sharp  edges,  the  weight 
of  it  ! 

He  must  try  and  forget  that  other.  He  would  stroll 
up  the  road,  go  at  once  ;  and  he  would  not  so  much  as 
glance  into  the  parlour  as  he  passed.  When  he  came 
back — perhaps.  He  took  up  his  hat,  set  it  on  with  a 
defiant  cock.  When  he  came  back  he  would  be  a 
different  man. 


VIII 

"  Where  is  Jenifer  ?  " 

"  She's  out  with  her  chap  and  we've  got  the  place 
to  ourselves."  Very  soon  Jenifer  would  be  gone  and 
Morwenna  would  have  him  altogether,  but  even  this 


152  THE  HAUNTING 

was  better  than  nothing.  She  smiled  on  her  surround- 
ings— the  small  cosy  room  with  the  horsehair  sofa 
against  the  wall,  the  bright  new-fangled  grate, 
the  closed  doors  that  led  into  shop  and  linhay.  The 
room  was  theirs,  walls  that  had  been  set  about  the 
bits  of  furniture  to  shut  him  and  her  off  from  the 
rest  of  the  world. 

"  That  is  good."  He  went  to  the  sofa,  sat  down, 
called  her  to  him.  "  Come  over  here." 

She  had  been  glad  to  see  him.  She  had  felt  she 
could  not  be  more  glad,  but  at  his  deepened  voice, 
at  the  look  in  his  eyes,  her  heart  swelled.  She  walked 
across  the  intervening  space  as  if  drawn  by  irresistible 
force.  Yet  she  felt  shy,  felt  she  must  speak  of  some 
trivial  matter,  must  take  refuge  in  that  way  from  her 
too  great  happiness. 

"  My  dear  life,  you'm  looking  like  anybody  be- 
witched. Have  you  had  a  bothering  day  ?  " 

He  pulled  her  down  beside  him.  "  Nev«r  mind 
about  that."  He  must  be  careful  what  he  said,  yes, 
even  to  her. 

It  would  not  be  difficult,  for  he  was  always  careful 
.  .  .  yet  for  once  in  his  self-contained  life  he  would 
have  been  glad  to  talk. 

"  Not  unless  it  comfort  you,"  she  said,  making, 
as  usual,  no  claim. 

It  would  have  comforted  him.  Another  mind  to 
have  shared  with  his  this  bewildering  knowledge, 
would  have  lightened  the  burthen  .  .  .  but  he  dare 
not  trust  her. 

"  Words  don't  help."  He  did  not  mind  her  knowing 
that  he  was  troubled. 

"  They  don't,"  but  loving  did,  the  outward  signs 
of  it. 


THE  HAUNTING  153 

Close  to  him,  leaning  against  his  broad  chest,  she 
looked  up.  His  eyes  were  not  as  dark  as  they  belonged 
to  be,  as  they  were  when  he  was  thinking  of  her  ; 
and  the  arm  about  her,  though  it  lay  warmly  in 
place,  was  not  drawn  tight.  "  I've  often  thought," 
she  murmured,  "  when  I  been  sitting  facing  you, 
playing  cribbage " 

His  mind  came  back  from  its  secret  places,  came 
back  to  her.  "  Well  ?  " 

"  I've  thought  I  should  like " 

"  What  did  you  think— all  that  time  ago  ?  "  He 
was  smiling  down  at  her,  glad  to  forget  his  worries, 
inclined  to  tease. 

But  she  was  serious.  "  That  I  should  like — to  put 
my  arms  round  your  neck  and  kiss  you — I  ought 
to  been  ashamed  of  myself !  " 

His  smile  deepened.  "  You  would  not  have  had 
to  wait  long  if  I  had  known,"  and  he  bent  his  head. 

"  No,"  she  said,  evading  him,  "  'tisn't  that.  I 
want  to  kiss  your  face  by  myself,  to  kiss  it,  all  of  it, 
and  you  do  nothing." 

He  laughed  at  that,  laughed  in  an  amused  content. 
Leaning  back,  his  head  on  the  rolled  end  of  the  sofa, 
he  let  her  have  her  way.  Morwenna  was  still  perfectly 
serious.  She  had  often  thought  how  wonderful  it 
would  be  to  touch  that  clear  pale  skin,  and  now  she 
might,  he  had  given  her  leave.  Almost  reverently 
she  kissed  his  temples  where  the  crisp  hair  was 
receding,  kissed  his  smooth  cheeks,  his  soft  eyelids. 
She  crooned  over  him  as  she  kissed,  murmuring  of 
the  long  hard  chin,  the  hidden  eyes.  "  And  I  do  like 
it  that  your  moustache  is  so  crisp  and  stiff.  If  it 
were  let  to  grow  curly,  'twould  be  curly  as  a  sheep's 
back." 


154  THE  HAUNTING 

For  years  she  had  looked  at  this  dear  face  from 
what  had  seemed  an  insuperable  distance.  "I'm 
like  the  nigger,"  she  said.  "  When  he  was  asked  what 
the  world  stood  on,  he  say  '  Ah,  it  stand  on  a  tortoise  ; 
and  de  tortoise  stand  on  a  emmet ;  and  de  emmet 
on  a  rock  ;  and— and — oh,  it  be  rock  all  de  way  down.' 
I'm  loving  you  all  de  way  down."  She  had  kissed 
his  dear  face  from  brow  to  chin.  Now  she  looked 
at  his  lips.  She  longed  to  press  them,  but  she  did 
not  dare.  She  knew,  too,  that  he  was  waiting  for 
that  last  deep  caress.  The  stir  in  her  blood  told  her 
that  he  was,  but  no,  she  could  not. 

"  I  don't  know  what  makes  you  care  for  me." 
She  would  have  to  pay  for  her  boldness.  How  could 
she  have  offered  to  kiss  him  ?  She  had  done  it  because, 
poor  chap,  he  looked  so  whisht  ;  but  she  had  not 
meant  to — to  make  him  feel  like  that. 

She  felt  ashamed  of  herself,  would  have  liked  to 
get  up  and  run  away  and  hide. 

"  I  don't  know  either."  His  eyes  were  open,  they 
had  the  dark  and  shining  look  that\  made  her  heart 
behave  so  oddly.  "  Kiss  me  !  " 

She  could  not  run  away,  she  could  not  even  refuse, 
she  did  not  want  to.  Her  blood,  moving  hotly, 
brought  her  lips  to  his. 

"  You  look  handsomer  to-night  than  I've  seen  you," 
he  murmured.  "  Women  always  look  handsomer 
when  I  am  loving  them." 


IX 

Not  till  Mr.  Corlyon  was  locking  the  door  of  the 
Brown  House  did  he  remember  the  apparition. 
The  air  of  the  passage  seemed  to  him,  after  the 


THE  HAUNTING  155 

warmth  of  Morwenna's  kitchen,  after  the  freshness 
of  the  sea-breeze,  clammy,  stagnant.  Before  him, 
within  the  house,  lay  the  dark,  and  the  dark  was 
peopled. 

He  thought  of  Morwenna.  If  only  he  could  have 
brought  her  back  with  him.  She  would  have  come. 
She  would  have  done  anything  he  asked  of  her. 
She  was — he  held  his  head  higher — she  was  his  woman. 
Absolutely,  in  every  fibre  of  her,  his. 

Her  presence  in  the  house  would,  like  a  destroying 
flame,  have  crumbled  his  vision  into  the  grey  nothing 
of  ashes.  Her  movements  would  have  blown  them 
away.  He  saw  her  suddenly  as  a  plump  broom. 
Saw  her  busy  in  the  old  rooms,  busy  creating  the 
clouds  of  dust  which,  with  housewifely  women,  were 
the  precursors  of  a  new  order.  Walking  along  the 
passage,  he  smiled  at  the  thought.  He  smiled  until 
he  saw  a  line  of  light  under  the  parlour  door. 

He  must  have  left  the  lamp  burning. 

He  could  not  let  it  burn  itself  out.  Yet — he  did 
not  want  to  go  into  that  room. 

He  pulled  himself  together — put  a  hand  to  the 
door-knob.  He  would  turn  the  lamp  out  without 
looking  at  the  sideboard. 

But  once  in  the  room,  in  spite  of  himself,  his  glance 
strayed  to  it.  He  had  to  look. 

His  heart  sank  away  ;  the  sensation  of  nausea 
rose  in  his  throat  .  .  . 

The  little  flagon  was  there. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


MR.  CORLYON  woke  with  a  start.  Though  it  was 
still  dark,  movements  on  Quayside  told  him  day  had 
begun. 

His  experiences  of  the  previous  night  had  made 
him  anxious  with  regard  to  Antiks.  He  must  be 
down  before  she  came  ;  and  he  woke  to  a  fear  lest 
he  had  overslept.  The  noises  that  he  heard — were 
they  outside  the  house,  or  in  ?  Antiks  had  a  key 
to  the  back  door  .  .  . 

She  could  let  herself  in  ;  and,  once  in,  she  would 
go  round  the  house,  drawing  back  curtains,  opening 
windows.  Suppose  that,  on  going  into  the  parlour, 
she  had  caught  sight  of  the  flagon  ? 

The  sweat  broke  out  on  his  body,  and  jumping  up, 
he  ran  down  the  stairs. 

Thank  heaven  ...  he  drew  a  long  breath  .  .  . 
thank  heaven,  he  had  been  mistaken.  Antiks  was 
not  yet  come.  In  the  cold  dark  house,  so  like  a  large 
grave,  was  no  sound,  not  so  much  as  the  chirp  of  a 
cricket. 

Was  the  flagon  still  a  faint  film  of  glass  and  wine 
standing  on  the  sideboard  ?  He  went  into  the  parlour, 
into  a  blackness  so  intense  that  you  fell  over  familiar 
pieces  of  furniture.  He  barked  his  shins  on  the  wood- 
basket,  cursed,  but  went  on  to  the  window.  Drawing 
back  the  dark  rep  curtains,  he  looked  over  the  wire 

156 


THE   HAUNTING  157 

blind  and  down  the  length  of  the  garden.  Lights 
on  the  Lowestoft  boats,  a  rattle  of  anchor  chains, 
trawlers  going  out. 

The  out-of-doors  was  busy  with  its  own  affairs  ; 
it  was  in  no  way  concerned  with  him. 

The  window  faced  east,  and  the  sky  was  lightening 
over  Brown  Willhay  and  Rowtor,  the  parlour  was 
no  longer  a  mere  pocket  of  darkness.  Mr.  Corlyon, 
turning  his  back  on  the  tide,  waited  till  the  black 
shapes  of  the  furniture  had  drawn  themselves  clear 
of  the  night,  till  he  could  distinguish  the  stretch  of 
polished  wood  that  lay  between  the  carven  wings 
of  the  sideboard. 

His  heart  leapt  with  relief  and  joy.  The  sideboard 
was  bare,  was  most  beautifully  bare.  Its  smooth 
surface  stretched  uninterruptedly  from  front  to  back, 
from  side  to  side.  With  a  step  grown  young,  he  crossed 
the  room,  scrutinized  the  wooden  slab,  shut  his  eyes 
to  look  again — looked  at  the  same  admirable  smooth- 
ness of  mahogany. 

He  had  left  the  flagon  there  overnight,  and  during 
the  dark  hours  it  had  vanished.  People  said  ''  Gone 
for  good  " — it  was  the  fitting  phrase!  The  flagon 
had  been  a  figment  of  his  imagination,  due  to  weariness 
and  overstrain.  He  must  be  more  careful ;  must 
diet  himself,  take  it  easy.  After  all,  he  was  getting 
on. 

Ah,  but  if  the  apparition  were  to  return  ?  He  must 
bear  in  mind  that  it  might.  It  would,  of  course,  be 
something  only  he  could  see,  still  .  .  . 

He  stood,  staring  at  the  sideboard,  cogitating. 
He  stood  there  till  he  knew  how  he  would  contrive 
that  the  flagon  should  not  appear, 


158  THE   HAUNTING 

ii 

When  Antiks  came,  she  found  Mr.  Corlyon  dressed 
and  busy.  "  Whatever  be  'ee  doin',  draggin'  all 
that  cloam  out  o'  cupboard,  Maister  ?  " 

"  I  " — he  must  give  her  an  explanation  that  would 
be  convincing — "  I  want  the  place  nice.  Mrs.  Liddi- 
coat  say  'tis  looking  bare." 

Antiks'  morning  mood  darkened.    If  Mrs.  Liddicoat 
was  to  have  a  voice  in  household  matters  her  time 
to  shift  must  be  come  .  .  .  and  .she  did  not  want  to 
go.     "  Where  be  goin'  put  they  putchers  to  ?  " 
"  On  the  sideboard." 

"  Leave'n  stay,  and  I'll  wash'n  a  bit  for  yer." 
He  glanced  at  the  selection  he  had  made.  No 
denying  that  the  jugs  and  dishes  were  dusty.  Stored 
away  since  the  death  of  his  stepmother,  they  were 
likely  to  be.  All  the  same,  it  annoyed  him  that  he 
must  wait  ;  that  he  could  not  carry  them  into  the 
parlour,  set  them  in  place,  do  it  that  very  moment. 
Stowe  believed  him  to  be  easy  tempered,  a  man 
who  heard  a  story  through  without  growing  impatient, 
who  was  willing  to -sit,  smoking,  listening;  who, 
when  he  had  heard  all,  gave  good  common-sense 
advice.  No  one  had  ever  seen  him  ruffled. 

He  choked  back  the  irritation  that  was  rising 
from  that  new  overstrung  self  of  his. 

"  They'm  lookin'  rather  mucky,"  Antiks  said. 
He  had  taken  them  from  the  wall  cupboard,  stacked 
them  on  the  table  among  the  supper  dishes,  till, 
as  she  expressed  it,  "kitchen  was  dancing  like  Launces- 
ton  jail."  "  My  dear  life,  Maister,  do  'ee  go  in  an' 
set  down,  or  you'll  be  hollerin'  '  Marblcw  '  for  break- 
fast and  I'll  have  nothing  ready." 


THE   HAUNTING  159 

"  All  right."  He  walked  away.  He  would  turn 
his  attention  to  something  else.  Ah,  yes,  that  mort- 
gage !  It  was  for  the  benefit  of  the  younger  children 
of  each  fresh  generation  of  Pendragons.  A  clever 
family,  clever,  that  is,  in  a  certain  way.  Once  they 
got  their  claws  on  to  a  bit  of  land,  they  knew  how  to 
keep  it.  Generation  after  generation,  unbegotten, 

even  unimagined,  yet  with  a  claim  .  .  . 

******* 

What  a  time  Antiks  was,  washing  "they  putchers." 
He  had  thought  of  her  as  quick,  but  she  was  no 

quicker  than  others. 

*          #         *         *         *          *         * 

He  must  make  his  client  insist  on  having  a  release 
from  the  mortgage.  These  people,  they  trusted  the 
Pendragons,  yet  it  was  only  last  year  that  Mr.  Llyr 
Pendragon  had  refused  to  grant  any  more  building 
leases  on  the  score  that  he  preferred  green  fields  to 
houses.  Stowe  could  not  expand  while  the  Pendragons 
owned  it.  He  was  in  favour  of  State  ownership — 
Norway  had  it,  why  not  his  country  ? 

Was  Antiks  never  coming  with  that  china  ?  Ah 
— at  last. 

She  had  pushed  open  the  door  with  her  foot, 
because  she  was  carrying  a  tray.  Now  he  could  set 
to  work. 

But  on  the  tray  was  only  his  breakfast  ! 

He  went  to  the  table,  sat  down. 

"  'Aven't  ate  more'n  a  sparrow  since  Maister 
Pascoe  went,"  said  Antiks. 

"  Never  mind  me,  go  on  with  your  work." 

Although  so  keenly  impatient,  he  must  eat. 
Already  the  fact  that  he  had  not  much  appetite 
had  caught  Antiks'  attention.  He  wished  people 


160  THE  HAUNTING 

were  not  so  noticing,  but  he  must  remember  that 
they  were.  He  must  remember,  in  particular,  that 
Antiks  was. 

What  was  the  matter  with  him  ?  Why  had  he 
no  appetite  ?  Thick  slices  of  fried  hog's  pudding  ! 
It  should  have  been  delicious,  yet  it  had  no  flavour. 
Was  it  true,  as  she  said,  that  he  had  eaten  no  more 
than  a  sparrow  of  late  ?  That  h«  had  had  no  appetite 
since  Pascoe  .  .  . 

It  had,  of  course,  been  a  shock  to  discover  that 
Pascoe  was  dishonest,  a  callous  brute  ;  to  find 
yourself  regarded  as  a  money-bag — squeeze,  and  a 
bit  of  gold  falls  out  !  It  was  more  than  a  shock, 
it  was  shattering.  Something  in  him  seemed  to 
have  given  way,  and  that  something  had  been 
like  the  iron  that  held  together  the  staves  of  a 
barrel. 

"  All  the  king's  horses  and  all  the  king's  men 
Couldn't  put  Humpty-Dumpty  together  again." 

— not  even  Morwenna  would  be  able  to  mend  what 
Pascoe  had  |broken.  She  soothed  and  rested  her 
lover,  but  the  band — the  iron  band — was  lost. 

When  Antiks  came  in  with  the  big  tray,  he  was 
walking  up  and  down  the  room,  working  off  his 
impatience. 

"  'Twill  make  a  lot  of  dustin'  for  I,"  she  said, 
planting  it  on  the  table. 

"  I'll  see  to  that." 

"  You'll  dust  they  putchers  ?  "  She  laughed  at 
him.  "  I  should  like  to  see  yer  doin'  of  it  !  Never 
dusted  nought  in  your  born  days,  and  I'm  sure  you- 
bain't  goin'  do  it  whiles  I'm  doin'  for  'ee.  No,"  she 
took  a  cloth  from  the  sideboard  drawer,  "  an'  you 


THE  HAUNTING  161 

bain't  goin'  put'n  on  the  bare  boards,   Maister,   or 
they'll  scratch'n." 

He  stood  back,  let  her  have  her  way.  "  At  any 
rate,  I'll  set  them  out." 

With  Antiks  watching,  he  chose  a  grey  beer- jug, 
stood  it  on  the  spot  which  had  yielded  that  rainbow 
gleam  a  few  hours  earlier.  By  it  he  placed  some 
pewter,  a  square  bottle  of  hollands,  some  old  lustre 
ware.  It  stood  to  reason  that  when  a  space  was 
filled  by  one  object,  it  could  not  be  taken  possession 
of  by  another.  He  looked  at  the  beer- jug,  at  the 
raised  figures  of  drinking  riotous  folk  on  its  sides. 
A  fine  old  crock,  and  solid.  The  diaphanous  film 
which  had  "occupied  that  spot  would  never  worry 
him  again. 

"  Now  that  be  looking  'ansome,"  Antiks  said, 
and  for  all  her  sweetness  she  was  a  little  envious. 
So  he  was  after  Mrs.  Liddicoat,  was  he  ?  Well,  she 
did  not  blame  the  man.  With  young  Maister  gone 
not  to  return,  he  must  find  it  dull  here  in  the  evenings, 
and  she  herself  could  not  expect — er — more  than 
she  got.  As  men  went,  Maister  had  treated  her  pretty 
well,  better  than  some.  A  pity  that  she  liked  him. 
Jimmy  Old  wanted  her,  but  she  could  not  take  so 
much  as  a  kiss  from  him  without  thinking  on  Maister. 
At  her  age,  too,  and  with  all  she  knew  !  "Be  you 
goin'  in  the  town,  Maister  ?  I  'aven't  streaked  the 
room  out  to-day — 

"  Never  mind  the  room." 

"  Mucky  ole  place  'tis." 

'  You  can  clean  it  to-morrow." 

He  must  know  whether  the  illusion  would  return. 
He  did  not  see  how  it  could,  but  he  must  make  sure. 
He  would  give  it  a  day,  and  during  that  day  neither 


162  THE  HAUNTING 

business  nor  Antiks  should  drag  him  out  of  the  parlour. 

"  I  have  work  to  do  here,"  and  he  seated  himself 
at  the  high  desk. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  only  anxious  to  please,  "it 
don't  matter,  for  I've  the  bread  to  bake,  and  it  'aven't 
plummed  yet. 

To  Mr.  Corlyon  the  day  dragged  by  on  leaden  feet. 
Antiks  brought  in  the  mid-day  meal,  brought  wood 
and  peat.  "  When  the  wind  come  in  at  kitchen  winder 
fire  never  go  well,"  she  said.  "  But  what  I've  made'll 
last  'ee  till  the  beginning  of  the  week.  ' 

"  Have  you  finished  then  ?  " 

"  I'm  off  now." 

As  the  door  closed  behind  her,  he  gave  up  pretence 
of  work.  The  relief  of  being  alone  in  the  house  ! 
He  made  up  the  fire,  and  sinking  into  the  deep  chair 
by  the  hearth,  closed  his  eyes.  It  was  yet  early  in 
the  afternoon,  but  he  had  a  feeling  of  release  from 
strain.  He  might  relax  tired  limbs,  a  tired  brain. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes,  it  was  to  find  he  had 
slept  a  couple  of  hours.  The  day  was  darkening, 
the  peat  was  low  in  the  fire-basket.  Half  asleep,  he 
had  a  little  feeling  of  expectation.  There  was  some- 
thing, he  could  not  quite  remember  what,  something 
for  which  he  must  be  on  the  look-out.  He  sat  up, 
remembering  fully.  He  looked  across  the  shadows 
at  the  dark  bulk  of  the  sideboard.  A  satisfactory 
array  of  delft  and  lustre-ware  !  That  had  been  a 
fine  idea  of  his. 

In  the  half-light  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  china 
from  pewter. 

Not  difficult  at  all  to  see  a  faint  clear  glitter — 
to  distinguish  a  shape,  half  filled  with  wine. 


THE  HAUNTING  163 

in 

During  the  three  days  Pascoe  had  been  at  home, 
Mr.  Corlyon  had  lived  with  an  intensity  hitherto 
unknown  to  him.  His  thoughts  had  been  so  ardent 
they  had  been  almost  alive.  Almost  ?  Could  a 
man's  thoughts  take  shape,  come  alive  ?  A  thought 
was  expressed  in  action,  but  the  thoughts  themselves, 
the  vehement,  vigorous  thoughts  ?  Were  they — 
nothing  ?  The  idea  that  they  might  not  be  was  new 
to  him.  Was  it  possible  that,  during  those  hours 
in  which  he  had  been  learning  what  manner  of  man 
lay  under  the  veneer  of  Pascoe's  sailor  heartiness, 
that  his  mind  had  given  off  films  of  thought  ?  Feeling 
so  strongly,  had  he  been  able  to  endow  his  emotions, 
his  thoughts,  with  substance  ?  A  substance  that  was 
exceedingly  tenuous,  but  visible  ?  Had  thought  a 
delicate  material  body,  so  fine  it  seemed  intangible  ? 
Good  heavens,  if  one's  thoughts  should  have  a 
separate  existence,  should  be  mental  children  !  If 
once  generated,  they  lived  on  by  themselves  ! 

Or  without  granting  that  a  thought  had  substance, 
might  it  not  be  a  sort  of  force  ?  Flung  violently 
into  the  surrounding  air,  it  might  remain  there, 
vividly  impressed  on — yes,  but  on  what  ?  Not  on 
the  air,  for  that  was  continually  being  blown  about. 
On  space,  perhaps,  the  space  in  which  is  air,  light, 
heat.  In  one  way  it  was  like  the  darkness,  for  when 
the  night  fell,  the  beer-jug  and  other  objects  on  the 
sideboard  could  not  be  seen.  The  thought -film — 
if  that  it  was — of  the  little  flagon  also  tended  to 
obliterate  them. 

The  idea  that  emotions,  thoughts,  might  have  a 
life  of  their  own  was  a  matter  of  the  sharpest  interest. 


164  THE  HAUNTING 

It  might  be  a  fact.  Yes,  but  even  if  it  were  it  did  not 
prove  that  the  appearance  on  his  sideboard  was  a 
force,  or  had  substance.  Though  the  appearance 
might  be  a  wraith,  it  was,  he  thought,  more  likely 
due  to  some  disorder  of  the  mind. 

An  illusion  could  be  ignored.  Existing  in  your 
mind,  it  was  as  exclusively  yours  as  an  opinion. 

But  a  wraith,  or  a  thought  that  had  impressed 
itself  visibly  and  immovably  on  space  ?  That— 
it  might  reveal  the  secrets  of  a  man's  life. 


IV 

Mr.  Corlyon  passed  the  night  in  his  big  chair.  He 
would  find  out  how  long  the  little  flagon — transparent 
as  rain — stood  dominantly  among  the  other  objects 
on  the  sideboard.  It  came  with  the  decline  of  daylight, 
so  much  he  had  established.  When  did  it  go  ? 

He  sat  by  the  fire,  nodding  off  at  intervals,  and 
waking  in  fear.  His  first  glance  was  for  the  sideboard, 
for  the  iridescent  gleam.  As  the  night  deepened, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  array  of  china  was  hardly 
solid,  that  the  little  flagon  was  the  one  outstanding 
object  on  a  vaguely  plenished  surface. 

If  he  had  not  known,  he  might  have  mistaken 
the  figment  for  the  real. 

He  sat  up  in  the  chair,  opened  the  Vestiges  of 
Creation.  He  would  lose  himself  in  these  surmises. 
A  strange  mind,  that  of  the  writer.  He  had  not  feared 
to  question,  to  hold  the  old  beliefs  up  to  the  light. 
Mr.  Corlyon  had  found  the  book  profoundly  inter- 
esting ;  ah,  but  that  was  before  .  .  . 

The  apparition  could  not  be  in  any  way  connected 
with  Pascoe  ? 


THE  HAUNTING  165 

Pascoe  was  dead. 

When  a  man  lay  under  Gudda  Hill,  with  a  thousand 
tons  of  rock  between  him  and  the  sunshine,  he  had 
done  with  life.  Ah,  and  you  had  done  with  it  when 
you  died  in  your  bed.  Dust  you  were.  The  dust 
eddying  in  the  unswept  street  was  the  dust  of  dead 
men.  Millions  had  been  born,  and  had  died.  They  were 
gone,  they  were  scattered,  a  bit  here,  a  bit  there — 
dust.  The  spirit  of  life  animating  that  dust  had  been 
spilt  by  the  breaking  apart  of  the  vessel.  If  men 
had  been  ghosts  clad  with  flesh,  if  when  the  flesh 
fell  away  the  ghosts  had  been  left — the  earth  would 
have  been  filled  with  them,  a  host  past  numbering. 

You  might  as  well  believe  that  after  death  a  woman 
would  meet  her  untimely  fruit.  He  smiled  to  himself. 
The  thing  was  absurd,  farcical. 

Pascoe  dead  was  Pascoe  destroyed. 

Yet  he,  Mr.  Corlyon,  must  grant  that  thought 
could  print  itself  on  space.  The  flagon  had  been 
born,  if  not  of  the  events  of  that  night,  at  least  of  the 
mind  which  had  brought  those  events  to  pass.  It 
was  an  emanation  from  his  mind. 

Or — or  Pascoe's. 

If  thoughts  and  emotions  had  a  separate  existence, 
they  might  persist  after  their  originator  were  under 
sod.  Pascoe's  feelings  when  he  realized  that  his 
brother  had  poisoned  him,  his  anger,  his  will  to 
repay  might  have  persisted  as  an  emanation.  The 
air  grows  foul  with  the  breath  of  drunken  men, 
remains  foul  after  the  men  have  passed. 

Mr.  Corlyon  was  seeing  Pascoe's  fury  and  longing 
for  revenge,  as  things  with  which  he  might  have  to 
reckon. 

Between  the  rep  curtains,  the  tide  of  returning 


166  THE  HAUNTING 

day  was  slipping,  wave  upon  pale  wave,  into  the 
room.  As  the  light  grew,  he  perceived  that  the 
flagon  became  less  distinct.  He  watched,  anxious 
to  make  sure.  Yes,  it  was  fading.  He  could  hardly 
see  it — mistiness,  nothing  .  .  . 

His  night's  vigil  had  taught  him  that  the  wraith 
came  with  the  night,  and  with  the  night  it  went. 


CHAPTER  XV 


"  SEEMS  strange,"  Antiks  said,  "  you  stickin'  indoors 
so.  Don't  give  me  a  chance  to-streak  the  room  out. 
A  mucky  ole  place  'tes,  too.  The  floor  has  tracks 
all  over." 

"  I  am  going  out  now."  His  business  called  for 
attention,  and  it  was  humiliating  to  be  kept  in  the 
house  by  a  ghostly  flagon.  It  looked  as  if  he  were 
afraid  of  the  thing — he  !  The  truth  was  haunts, 
bogies,  apparitions,  they  affected  him  no  more  than 
pieces  of  furniture.  If  they  were  there,  well,  they 
were.  What  did  they  matter  ?  Ah,  but  they  did. 
Tf  seen  by  other  people,  they  might  affect  a  man's 
future.  Though  he  were  in  the  right,  a  haunt  might 
make  it  appear  as  if  he  had  committed  a  crime. 
An  innocent  man  might  be  found  guilty  1 

Mr.  Corlyon  saw  that  he  must  be  cautious,  take 
care  no  one  but  himself  knew  of  the  flagon.  He 
wished  that  he  felt  certain  it  would  not  return  till 
night,  not  until  after  Antiks  had  gone  home  to  her 
children.  Some  days  now  since  he  had  decided  to 
stay  indoors  in  order  to  learn  when  the  flagon  appeared, 
and  how  long  it  remained.  He  wanted  to  convince 
himself  that  it  was  only  visible  during  the  night ; 
and  he  was  nearly  certain,  but  not  quite  ...  no  ... 

He  must  go  out.  He  must  chance  the  reappearance 
of  that  iridescent  gleam  among  the  cloam  on  the 

167 


168  THE  HAUNTING 

sideboard.  After  all,  Antiks  had  her  work  ;  she  would 
not  be  on  the  lookout  for  flagons  that  had  been  put 
away  in  the  china  cupboard.  What  a  person  expected 
to  see  they  very  often  saw.  That,  now  he  came  to 
think  of  it,  might  be  the  reason  he  saw  the  flagon  ! 
No,  no,  the  thing  was  real.  He  saw  it,  saw  it  more 
plainly  than  he  saw  the  grey  beer-jug.  It  was  actually 
there,  a  squat  square-sided  glass  vessel — at  least, 
it  was  there  during  the  night. 

He  went  over  to  the  Estate  Office.  The  agent  had 
seen  Mr.  Pendragon  about  the  mortgage  and  the 
release  had  been  made  out,  but  it  was  evident  they 
considered  Mr.  Corlyon  was  making  an  unnecessary 
fuss.  He  was  a  flint  on  the  smooth  county  road,  an 
awkwardness.  His  brain — so  shrewd  a  brain — was  at 
the  service  of  the  workers,  was  for  ever  scheming  for 
them.  Llyr  Pendragon,  when  he  heard  the  auction- 
eer's name  always  growled  and  sometimes  his  growl 
grew  thunderous,  but  he  could  do  nothing ;  and 
Corlyon  went  on  with  his  work,  snipping  at  this  bit 
of  power,  that  so-called  right. 

He  was  for  Stowe.  He  thought  a  man  should  own 
his  house  ;  or,  if  not,  that  the  community  should. 
Taking  the  grudged  release  he  smiled  at  the  agent. 
Once  more  he  had  got  the  better  of  the  incubus.  As 
he  walked  out  of  the  office,  however,  he  forgot  the 
burning  question  of  the  land  and  its  ownership.  His 
thoughts  had  fled  down  the  street.  Antiks  was 
cleaning  the  parlour !  How,  if  while  she  were  dusting, 
the  flagon  should  have  become  visible  ?  Nonsense  ! 
He  must  not  let  fear  run  away  with  common  sense. 

He  turned  into  the  Farmer's  Arms.  Mrs.  Maddicott 
had  asked  him  to  find  her  a  profitable  investment 
for  some  money  she  had  saved ;  and  the  Dick  Jackas 


THE  HAUNTING  169 

would  borrow 'it  to  build  a  house.  They  were  hard- 
working people  and  would  pay  well  for  the  accommo- 
dation. 

She  wanted  to  speak  to  him  about  something  else. 
Rebecca  French,  "  who  they  call  the  witch,  was 
trying  to  buy  her  cottage  and  landlord  were  askin' 
too  much  for't.  Would  Mr.  Corlyon  speak  for  her  ? 
Her  rent  bein'  only  a  shilling  a  week,  landlord  didn' 
belong  to  ask  so  much.  'Twas  fulish  of'n,  seein'  she 
could  witch'n  if  she  like." 

Mr.  Corlyon  found  himself  declaring  that  he  was  too 
busy  to  attend  to  the  matter.  He  caught  the  look 
of  surprise  on  Mrs.  Maddicott's  face.  He,  who  had 
always  been  willing  to  forward  anybody's  wishes — 
what  had  come  to  him  ?  Pulling  himself  up,  he 
temporized.  He  had  had  a  cold  and  that  had  made 
him  extra  busy,  but,  of  course,  anything  he  could  do  ; 
she  knew  he  was  only  too  glad  to  be  of  use.  Who  was 
the  landlord  ?  Biddick  ?  He  would  be  sure  to  run 
across  him  market-day,  would  make  a  point  of  it. 
And  now  Mrs.  Maddicott  must  excuse  him ;  oh  yes, 
more  business. 

He  swung  rapidly  along  the  street.  Before  him, 
halfway  down  the  slope,  lay  the  baby-linen  shop. 
He  would  get  a  glimpse  of  its  keeper,  and  a  mere 
glimpse  was  better  than  nothing.  The  dear,  warm 
woman,  she  was  like  a  fire  oh  the  hearth.  A  man 
could  hold  his  hands  to  it,  sit  by  it,  grow  warm  all 
through. 

With  Pascoe  gone,  his  was  a  lonely  sort  of  existence. 
There  was  nothing  now  to  which  he  could  look  forward, 
not  even  an  occasional  letter.  All  Stowe  was  his 
friend,  but  that  meant  he  had  no  intimates.  A  cold 
life  and,  lately,  a  troubled  one.  But  when  Morwenna 


170  THE  HAUNTING 

came  to  him  he  would  have  the  best  of  company. 
With  her  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  he  would  be 
able  to  forget  that  thin  glitter  of  glass  on  the  sideboard 
— and  if  he  did  not  think  of  it,  perhaps,  it  would 
not  be  there.  Was  that  too  much  to  hope  for  ? 

He  strode  on,  paused.  The  shutters  of  the  baby- 
linen  shop  were  up,  the  door  was  fastened.  Mr. 
Corlyon  felt  as  if  he  had  been  cut  by  a  friend  I  Where 
could  Morwenna  be  ?  When  he  wanted  her,  she  had 
no  right  to  be  out. 

Perhaps  she  had  gone  to  ask  her  sister  over  for  their 
wedding.  She  might  have  told  him  she  was  going. 
Not  long  now  before  she  would  be  at  the  Brown  House, 
and  then,  every  minute  of  the  day,  he  would  know 
where  she  was  and  what  she  was  doing. 

He  went  on  towards  the  harbour,  but  the  blankness 
of  the  shop  face  had  depressed  him.  His  mind  re- 
turned to  its  problems,  slipped  past  them  to  the'  fear 
lest  Antiks  .  .  .  Letting  himself  into  the  house,  he 
trod  quietly  along  the  passage,  appeared  at  the  parlour 
door. 

Antiks  was  at  the  sideboard. 

In  blind  confused  anger,  a  flurry  of  fear,  he  stepped 
up  to  her.  What  had  happened,  what  had  she  seen, 
what  did  she  think  ?  "  Antiks  !  " 

She  turned,  her  face  pale.     "  O,  my  lor',  Maister  !  " 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  As  he  spoke,  he  saw  that 
she  was  frightened  of  him,  was  frightened  because  he 
had  taken  her  by  surprise.  The  flagon  was  there,  he 
could  see  it,  the  faintest  possible  glitter  ;  but  he  did 
not  think  it  was  visible  to  her.  Not  yet  .  .  . 

Why,  then,  was  she  frightened  ?  His  glance  passed 
her,  rested  on  the  bottle  of  hollands. 

"  Spirits  ?  "  he  said. 


THE  HAUNTING  171 

"  I  felt  all  fainty  and  queer-like." 

"  You  were  all  right  when  I  went  out.  What  is 
the  matter  ?  "  What  had  occurred  to  upset  her  ? 
If  one  queer  thing  happened,  another  might. 

"  Dunno,  I'm  sure."  She  came  a  step  nearer. 
After  all  he  did  not  belong  to  be  terrible  vexed.  She 
had  not  taken  much.  "  See  'ow  goosey-flesh  my  arms 
be  !  "  She  held  a  plump  dimpled  arm  for  his  inspec- 
tion with  a  smile  which  would  grow  or  die  according 
to  his  mood. 

It  died,  for  his  face  was  without  kindness,  his  eyes 
coldly  brilliant,  his  lips  thin  and  set.  "  If  you  take 
to  spirits,  my  maid,  you'll  go  all  to  pieces.  Let  me 
catch  you  at  it  again  and  out  you  go,  neck  and  crop." 

He  went  to  his  desk.  Above  it,  on  the  wall,  hung 
a  calender,  big  black  letters  on  a  white  ground.  As 
he  put  back  the  lid,  his  glance  rose  to  it.  Good  hea- 
vens, it  was  Jenifer's  wedding-day.  That,  of  course, 
was  why  the  shop  shutters  had  been  up.  To  think 
he  should  have  forgotten  ! 


n 

Antiks  went  back  to  the  kitchen.  "A  month  ago 
Maister  would  have  kissed  the  arm  and  forgiven  her  ; 
but  that  Mrs.  Liddicoat  had  him  now,  and  he  was  sour 
as  a  whiggin. 

"  Some  people  had  the  luck  and  others  the  childern. 
Do  her  justice  though,  Mrs.  Liddicoat  wadn'  like  some, 
she  didn'  go  scandlin',  nor  she  didn'  throw  it  up  to 
people  what  they  done.  After  all  why  should  she  ? 
Had  had  one  man  and  now  wanted  another.  She'd 
got'n,  too.  Not  that  Antiks  put  confidence  in  men. 
She  had  had  experience. 


172  THE  HAUNTING 

"  If  a  woman  was  good  enough  for  one  thing,  she  was 
good  enough  for  another.  So  far  as  that  went  though, 
she,  Antiks,  didn'  want  to  be  married.  The  same  man 
all  the  time  ?  She  liked  a  change,  she  did.  Well, 
mostly,  but— the  Maister  .  .  . 

"Nobody  like 'n  in  Stowe.  Lovely  built  man,  great 
square  shoulders  and  slantin'  body  and  long  legs  ! 
'Twas  hard  luck  as  he'd  gone  after  Mrs.  Liddicoat  who 
was  so  thick  as  she  was  long,  and  old  ;  and  who'd 
turn  her,  Antiks,  to  doors.  A  really  covechous  woman, 
the  more  she  got,  the  more  she  want." 

Antiks  began  to  prepare  the  dinner.  "Maister  had 
been  stiff  as  an  old  tree  to  her,  but  give'n  good  bellyful 
and  praps  he'd  bend  a  bit." 


in 

Mr.  Corlyon  sat  before  his  desk  with  a  yellowish 
parchment  open  on  the  thin  green  leather.  He  was 
not  reading  the  deed,  had  forgotten  that  it  lay  there. 
His  mind  was  entirely  occupied  with  the  little  flagon. 

To  begin  with,  it  had  only  appeared  during  the  hours 
of  darkness.  Now,  though  the  noon  light  was  resting 
on  the  tangle  of  grey  roofs,  if  stood  plain  to  see.  The 
bottle  of  hollands,  the  cloam  and  pewter,  showed  dim 
beside  its  brightness  of  polished  glass.  So  shadowy 
were  they  that  Mr.  Corlyon  wondered  how  Antiks 
could  have  managed  to  help  herself.  He  was  sure  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  have  distin- 
guished between  shadow  and  substance. 

The  haunt,  or  whatever  it  was,  was  growing  from 
day  to  day  more  noticeable.  As  yet  Antiks  had  not 
perceived  it — she  would  not  have  helped  herself  to 
the  spirits  if  she  had  !  His  lips  twitched  at  the  idea 


THE  HAUNTING  173 

of  Antiks  helping  herself  from  that  vague  bottle  if 
she  had  known  that  a  ghostly  flagon  was  touching  her 
hand.  Helped  herself  ?  She  would  have  screamed 
and  run  away  and  talked — how  she  would  have  talked ! 
No,  she  had  not  seen  it  yet,  but  she  would.  And 
Morwenna 

Well,  and  if  they  did,  what  matter  ?  The  house 
would  get  a  reputation,  would  be  looked  on  as  haunted; 
but  the  haunt  was  a  very  mild  one.  It  told  nothing, 
showed  nothing  ;  and  what  more  natural  than  that  a 
decanter  of  wine  should  stand  on  a  man's  sideboard  ? 

It  was  an  odd  thing  that  the  haunt  should  be  con- 
fined to  the  little  flagon. 

If  it  were. 

He  had  been  conscious,  during  the  last  few  days,  of 
a  dim  sensation,  a — it  was  rather  more  than  a  suspi- 
cion. Of  an  evening  when  he  went  for  supper  into 
the  warm  half-lit  kitchen,  he  experienced  a  certain 
discomfort,  a  discomfort  for  which  he  could  not  ac- 
count. He  wanted  to  believe  it  due  to  his  leaving  one 
room  for  another.  But  that  pricking  and  tingling 
of  the  skin  across  his  shoulders  !  He  could  not  put  it 
down,  altogether,  to  his  having  walked  from  one  room 
into  another.  Always,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold  of 
the  kitchen,  a  shudder  ran  down  his  spine.  Why  ? 
He  was  beginning  to  find  it  required  an  effort  for  him 
to  go  at  night  into  that  room.  He  had  to  take  himself 
to  task  before  he  could  induce  himself  to  leave  the 
parlour.  Yet  it  was  the  parlour  that  had  developed 
a  haunt,  not  the  kitchen. 

He  told  himself  that  he  was  puzzled.  Why  should 
the  kitchen  make  him  feel  queer  ?  It  was  in  that  room 
Pascoe  had  died,  but  in  so  old  a  house,  there  must  be 
hardly  a  room  which  had  not  witnessed  death.  Cer- 


174  THE  HAUNTING 

tainly  there  had  been  one  difference  between  Pascoe's 
death  and  that  of  the  others.  Pascoe  had  been  killed 
and  he  had  known  it.  At  the  time,  Gale  had  been 
glad  that  he  should  know.  What  would  be  the  use  of 
killing  if  the  killed  lay  down  in  an  eternal  ignorance  ? 
Pascoe  had  died  beaten  at  his  own  game  and  aware  of 
it.  Baffled,  furious,  his  last  breath  would  be  a  longing 
for  vengeance,  the  vengeance  that  was  for  ever  out  of 
his  reach.  Was  it  possible  that  when  life  drained  out 
of  his  body,  that  longing,  set  free,  had  become  a 
something  in  itself  ? 

Whatever  the  reason,  Mr.  Corlyon  must  admit  that 
the  atmosphere  of  the  kitchen  was  no  longer  friendly. 
Instinctively  he  seated  himself  back  to  the  wall,  ate 
hurriedly  yet  watchfully,  felt  relieved  when,  supper 
finished,  he  could  return  to  the  parlour.  He  had  be- 
gun to  expect — to  go  back  in  thought — to  imagine  he 

could  see 

******* 

No  good  came  of  trying  to  put  off  an  evil  moment. 
He  must  go  into  the  kitchen  and  eat  as  usual  or  An- 
tiks  would  notice,  would  talk.  The  deed  crackled  as 
folding  it  he  pushed  it  indifferently  under  the  row  of 
pigeon-holes.  He  found  that  he  was  growing  impa- 
tient of  other  people's  business.  It  was  impossible 
to  keep  his  thoughts  on  their  concerns  long  enough  to 
do  any  satisfactory  work.  Nor  did  he  feel  the  old 
keen  interest,  the  sense  of  power.  Mrs.  Maddicott's 
savings,  the  Dick  Jackas'  mortgage,  Rebecca  French's 
cottage — trivial.  What  did  these  things  matter  to 
him  ?  His  mind  was  occupied  with  his  own  affairs. 

If  he  could  only  decide  which  of  the  explanations 
that  had  occurred  to  him  was  correct.  Was  the  little 
flagon  that  haunted  his  sideboard  an  illusion  which 


THE  HAUNTING  175 

troubled  him  because  he  was  out  of  health  ?  Or  was 
it  real,  a  thought -form  sprung  from  his  mind,  im- 
pressed by  it  on  space  ?  Or  could  it  be  an  expression 
of  dead  Pascoe's  undying  animosity  ? 

Pushing  back  his  chair,  he  went  into  the  kitchen. 
Flame  had  broken  through  the  sods,  the  lime-washed 
walls  were  bright  with  its  reflection,  on  the  disordered 
table  .  .  . 

But  the  table  should  have  been  set  for  supper  ! 


IV 

He  was  looking  at  dirty  plates  and  glasses,  at  a  stain 
on  the  cloth.  The  light  was  shining  on  decanters — 
and  none  had  been  in  use  since  .  .  . 

He  stood  staring.  Another  illusion  !  That  splash 
of  spilt  wine  was  not  there.  He  saw  it,  and  yet  he 
could  not  really  see  it,  for  it  was  not  real.  He  was 
only  remembering. 

He  could  see  through  the  litter  of  broken  meats,  of 
china,  could  see  that  the  table  had  not  really  been  laid 
for  two  but  only  one.  Bright  silver,  clean  cutlery, 
the  uncut  loaf — they  were  certainly  there,  but  faint, 
as  if  seen  through  mist. 

He  was  not  startled,  for  he  had  known  for  some  time 
that  there  was  more  in  the  kitchen  than  he  saw.  He 
had  known,  but  had  hoped  whatever  it  was  would 
remain  invisible,  would  not  develop. 

No  knowing  now  what  might  happen.  He  felt  a 
deep  depression,  a  sinking  of  the  heart.  Would  this 
appearance  persist  ?  Would  he  have  to  sit,  night 
after  night  at  this  unclean  table,  eat  and  drink  amid 
this  unremovable  dirt  ?  Oh,  impossible. 

And  was  this  disorder  of  the  table  all  ?     He  knew 


176  THE  HAUNTING 

that  it  was  not.  He  knew  that  if  he  looked  .  .  .  and 
he  wanted,  he  longed  to  look  ;  but,  no,  he  would  not 
turn  his  head. 

The  settle,  the  old  settle  that  stood  at  right  angles  to 
the  hearth,  was  shadowed  by  the  high  mantelshelf. 
If  he  turned  he  would  see  that  shadow  of  the  shelf. 

He  forced  himself  to  sit  at  the  unseemly  table,  to 
eat  and  drink.  No  matter  what  he  saw,  what  he  heard, 
what  he  felt,  he  would  not  give  way.  He  was  Gale 
Corlyon  and  he  was  not  afraid. 

Yet  it  was  difficult  to  keep  his  thoughts  from  that— 
that  shadow  of  the  shelf. 

He  must  bear  in  mind  that  when  you  expected  to 
see  a  definite  thing,  the  odds  were  in  favour  of  your 
seeing  it. 

Sometimes,  however,  you  knew  without  looking. 
For  instance,  he  knew  that  on  the  settle  was — not 
only  that  shadow  of  the  shelf. 

On  the  seat  lay  a  red  cushion.  Pascoe's  mother  had 
made  it  the  year  she  died.  She  was  a  clever  needle- 
woman and  always  busy.  Mr.  Corlyon  thought  of 
the  pride  she  had  felt  in  the  well-fitting  cushion.  If 
she  could  have  known  that  her  child  was  to  lie  on  it 
at  the  last  .  .  .  .to  lie  there  .  .  . 

For  some  time  Mr.  Corlyon  had  fancied  he  could 
hear  a  sound  as  of  someone  who  breathed — who 
breathed  with  difficulty.  It  seemed  to  him  that  those 
slow  breaths  were  coming  more  slowly,  that  they  must 
soon  cease.  On  the  settle,  as  he  knew,  lay  a  figure.  .  . 

He  could  not  help  remembering  that  he  had  lifted 
that  slack  heavy  figure  from  the  settle,  had  carried  it 
through  the  cellar  into  the  fogou,  had  pulled  down  on  it 
the  impending  hill. 

Memory  ...  it   was   nothing   more  !     There   was 


THE  HAUNTING  177 

no  figure  lying  on  the  red  cushion,  the  settle  was  a 
mere  blank  piece  of  furniture.  To  look  was  to  show 
that  he  doubted,  and  therefore  he  would  not  look. 
No — and  then  he  looked. 

Oh,  yes,  he  had  known.     The  settle  was  dark  with 
the  outline  of  a  man's  body. 


Mr.  Corlyon,  staring  at  that  black  shape,  was  filled 
with  exasperation.  He  left  his  seat  at  the  table,  came 
to  the  settle,  studied  the  apparition  with  a  sense  of 
fierce  repugnance.  Dim,  but  recognizable,  it  stretched 
rrom  end  to  end  of  the  seat.  It  dulled  the  red  of  the 
cushion  as  if  it  had  been,  in  truth,  a  shadow,  yet  it 
had  substance.  Yes,  to  a  certain  extent,  substance. 

Pascoe,  sure  enough.  Hair  curly  as  a  spaniel  dog, 
the  full  lips  that  had  been  old  Tom  Corlyon's,  the 
hooked  nose.  Short,  broad,  rarely  strong  .  .  .  Pas- 
coe. 

But  Mr.  Corlyon  had  seen  the  rock  fall  on,  crush  that 
body.  This  could  not  be  Pascoe.  The  rascal  lay 
some  hundreds  of  feet  away,  lay  in  the  rocky  clasp  of 
Gudda.  Though  dead  and  buried,  that  sailor  rig,  the 
white  disk  of  that  face,  might  yet  be  seen  by  people, 
might  yet  bring  disgrace  upon  the  family. 

No,  but  it  should  not.  A  black  bitterness  shook 
Mr.  Corlyon.  He  thrust  his  hand  into  the  shadow  and 
it  went  through.  It  seemed  to  pass  through  a  layer 
of  cold  air,  but  at  last  it  rested  on  the  cushion. 
Furious  he  dragged  the  cushion  away,  but  all  that 
happened  was  a  red  strip  of  wholesome  cushion  lying 
on  the  floor,  while  on  the  settle  the  wraith  of  Pascoe 
lay  on  the  wraith  of  a  cushion.  Still  more  exasperated 
he  tried  to  move  the  settle  but  it  was  fixed  to  the  wall. 


178  THE  HAUNTING 

That  at  least  he  could  deal  with.  The  settle  was 
worm-eaten  and  of  little  use.  He  would  break  it  up, 
burn  it. 

The  axe  was  hanging  to  the  wall.  Lifting  it  from 
the  nail,  he  set  to  work  with  a  vigour,  savage  in  its 
intensity.  The  wood  being  dry,  split  easily  and  he 
chopped  off  legs,  back,  seat,  as  if  he  were  destroying 
an  enemy,  as  if  the  settle  were  alive.  He  felt,  indeed, 
as  if  it  were  in  league  with  Pascoe,  as  if  it  were  part 
of  the  appearance.  Certainly,  if  there  were  no  settle 
Pascoe  could  not  lie  on  it. 

The  flames  roared  up  the  antient  chimney,  the 
wood  withered,  shrank  together,  vanished.  The 
settle  was  a  pile  of  feathery  flakes.  Mr.  Corlyon's 
wrath  passed  with  the  fluttering  ash.  It  was  as  if 
he  had  been  hungry  and  now  was  filled.  He  looked 
about  the  kitchen.  The  very  atmosphere  had  changed. 
The  air  was  no  longer  charged  with  heavy  emotion. 
He  had  purged  it  by  sacrificing  the  old  bench. 

Returning  to  the  parlour,  he  settled  himself  in  the 
big  chair  and,  once  there,realized  that  he  was  shivering. 
His  teeth  were  chattering,  his  knees  knocked  together. 
It  must  be  that  he  was  unduly  excited,  but  why  should 
he  be  ?  He  had  done  a  sensible  thing  in  destroying 
the  settle,  had  got  the  better  this  time  of  Pascoe. 

Though  his  exertions  had  made  him  sweat,  his  feet 
were  cold.  They  were  always  cold,  but  to-night  pain- 
fully so — he  must  change  his  boots. 

A  little  unfortunate  that  his  house-shoes  should  be 
in  the  kitchen. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  laughed  at  himself. 
Of  what  was  he  afraid.  The  kitchen  had  been  cleansed 
by  fire  of  its  oppressive  atmosphere.  Having  dealt 
with  the  haunt  or  whatever  it  was,  he  could  go  in 


THE   HAUNTING  179 

knowing  he  had  nothing  to  fear.  To  fear  ?  He  had 
meant  that  it  contained  nothing  unpleasant,  that 
there  was  no  longer  any  likelihood  of  his  seeing  the 
wraith  of  Pascoe. 

His  shoes  were  kept  by  the  wood -basket  under  the 
window  ;  and,  while  he  was  about  it,  he  might  as 
well  adjust  the  cover-fire. 

But — what  was  that  shadow  at  right  angles  to  the 
hearth  ?  For  a  moment  he  felt  dizzy,  confused.  He 
had  burnt  the  settle  and  yet  that — that  shadow. 
Putting  a  hand  to  his  brow,  he  stood  for  a  second  with 
his  eyes  shut.  He  mus.t  get  the  thought  of  the  old 
bench  out  of  his  mind,  then  he  would  see  that  it  was 
not  there. 

A  line  of  darkness  jutting  from  the  wall  !  He  saw 
it  clearly,  the  wood  bright  from  years  and  years  of 
rubbing,  the  glow  of  a  red  cushion  and  ...  on  the 
cushion  .  .  . 

God  !  but  he  had  destroyed  the  settle,  had  chopped 
it  into  slivers,  thrown  the  wood  bit  by  bit  on  to  the 
fire,  had  watched  it  burn. 

It  had  gone  up  the  wide  chimney  in  pale  feathery 
ash,  had  been  blown  away  by  the  sea-wind,  scattered 
over  the  world.  It  was  incredible  that  it  should  be  in 
its  year-long,  generation-long  place  by  the  fire,  that  it 
should  be  still  a  settle,  still  haunted. 

Incredible,  yet  .  .  .  the  horror  of  it  was,  that  its 
reappearance  was  not,  altogether,  a  surprise.  He  had 
destroyed  in  a  raging  fury,  but  as  his  passion  died, 
satiate,  he  had  suspected  that  what  he  had  done  would 
be  unavailing.  No,  he  had  hardly  suspected,  and  yet 
when  he  saw  the  settle  he  had  not  felt  any  sharp  sur- 
prise. Below  his  mind  had  lain  a  covered,  hidden 
expectation. 


180  THE  HAUNTING 

He  had  not  been  able  to  burn  the  settle,  and  the 
sight  of  it  no  longer  angered  him.  His  excitement  had 
passed  and  he  was  tired  ;  empty,  too,  empty  of  re- 
source. He  would  fetch  the  shoes — go  to  bed.  He 
crossed  the  kitchen  and  so  real  was  the  wooden  foot, 
gripping  the  floor  below  the  settle,  that  he  made  to 
step  round  it.  As  he  did  so  he  felt  a  qualm  of  the  old 
annoyance.  The  foot  was  not  there — not  really 
there.  He  put  out  his  hand  .  .  . 

Nothing — though  the  settle  rose  before  him,  polished, 
dark — nothing. 

Not  quite  that. 

He  had  seemed  to  plunge  his  hand  into  cold  air. 


VI 

Unable  to  sleep,  Mr.  Corlyon  lay  watching  the 
flickers  of  yellow  light  that  danced  on  his  wall.  The 
flickers  were  glints  from  the  riding  lights  of  the  traw- 
lers. As  the  sea  swayed  the  vessels,  the  glints  swung 
up  and  down  the  wall,  tiny  flecks  that  had  been 
familiar  to  him  since  childhood  ;  that  he  had  thought 
were  star -gleams,  until  his  mother,  coming  to  his  bed- 
side one  night  to  kiss  him,  had  told  him  to  look  out 
of  the  window,  see  for  himself. 

The  flickers  were  a  part  of  the  old  comfortable 
routine  of  life,  the  routine  that  was  giving  place  to  a 
new  order.  He  lay  watching  them,  lay  quietly  and 
thought. 

It  had  come  to  tkis.  He  could  not  destroy  the 
haunt.  He  had  proved  that.  It  remained  to  see 
whether  in  any  way  he  could  deal  with  it.  Meanwhile 
he  must  admit  that  it  affected  him.  To-night,  for 
instance,  it  had  made  him  yield  to  anger.  He  prided 


THE  HAUNTING  181 

himself  on  his  self-control,  but  the  sight  of  that  figure 
on  the  settle  had  proved  too  much  for  it,  and  he  had 
let  himself  go.  The  burning  of  the  settle  had  been  an 
orgy.  The  passions  that  underlay  a  man's  everyday 
behaviour  had  been  released.  He  had  slashed  and 
smashed  in  a  destroying  fury  and,  strangely  enough, 
felt  the  better  for  it.  In  wrecking  the  old  bench  he 
had  poured  out  the  lees  of  himself,  a  black  toxic 
energy  that  had  been  fermenting  at  the  bottom  of  his 
— not  mind,  exactly — perhaps  of  his  consciousness. 
Tired  though  he  was,  he  yet  felt  more  his  old  self, 
better  able  to  consider  this  inexplicable  pseudo- 
ghostly  appearance — to  consider  also  its  effect  on 
himself. 

He  had  to  deal  with  the  appearances  ;  had,  if  it  were 
possible,  to  circumvent  them.  First,  though,  he  had  to 
decide  whether  he  were  the  man  he  had  thought  himself, 
or  whether  there  were  in  him  deep-lying  unimagined 
possibilities.  How  was  it  that  he,  so  self-contained, 
had  flung  himself  in  destructive  fury  on  that  tainted 
bench  ?  What  was  it  that  of  late  had  been  let  loose 
in  him  ?  Before  Pascoe  came  home,  he  had  had  none 
of  these  sudden  rages  ;  now  at  a  thought,  a  vision, 
they  rose,  breaking  through.  He  had,  of  course, 
known  what  it  was  to  be  angry,  oh,  terribly  angry  ; 
but  his  wrath  had  come  upon  him  slowly,  had  come 
because  of  some  proven  injustice  or  cruelty,  and  it  had 
stimulated  him  to  make  carefully  considered  war  on 
the  oppressor.  His  anger  had  been  impersonal,  a 
clean  thing,  but  these  rages — 

Were  there  two  Gale  Corlyons  ?  Had  he  an  under- 
lying self  that  fell  into  blind  mad  rages,  that  was  fun- 
damentally unstable  ?  Did  it  manifest  itself  in  his 
preoccupation  with  the  little  flagon,  with  the  scenes  of 


182  THE  HAUNTING 

Pascoe's  death,  with  what  might  be  seen  in  the  kitchen  ? 
He,  Gale,  had  no  superstitious  feelings  about  death. 
A  dead  man  or  a  dead  pig — what  was  the  difference  ? 
But  the  new  Gale,  the  Gale  that  clamoured  in  the 
dark  places,  that  Gale  had  hours  when  he  was  shaken 
with  a  sort  of  panic.  The  apparitions  sent  shivers 
down  his  spine,  the  hairs  of  his  body  rose,  he  felt  that 
he  must  draw  back,  flee  "  from  the  wrath  to  come." 
That  was  it  !  He  must  flee  from  the  unknown,  an 
unknown  that  was  sweeping  down  on  him  and  which 
was  hostile,  sinister.  At  these  times  he  could 
not  reason,  he  could  only  suffer.  At  these  times  he 
was  not — himself. 

And  the  self  that  was  violent,  unstable,  and  over 
which  he  had  only  a  slight  hold  ?  It  must  always 
have  lain  under  the  reasonable,  courageous  self,  must 
have  lain  there,  a  coiled  and  sleeping  force.  He  had 
been  unaware  of  it — ah,  but  not  altogether  unaware. 
He  had  known  that  he  was  capable  of  sudden,  and 
strong  action  ;  that  he  would  dare  what  other  men 
feared  to  attempt.  This  secret  knowledge  had  given 
him  poise,  had  set  him  above  other  people,  had  enabled 
him  to  war  successfully  with  those  in  high  places. 

He  had  sat  in  judgment,  knowing  himself  capable 
of  carrying  out  a  decision  however  tremendous.  The 
necessity  to  do  so  had  come  upon  him  with  the  dis- 
covery that  Pascoe,  his  beloved  and  cherished  brother, 
was  vile.  He  had  acted,  then,  as  he  had  known  he 
could.  He  had  condemned  and  he  had  done  justice. 
His  reasonable  self  approved,  yes,  and  in  spite  of  the 
haunt  continued  to  approve. 

He  approved  the  action,  but  was  surprised  to  see 
that  it  had  cast  a  shadow.  The  haunt  of  the  little 
flagon,  the  oppressive  atmosphere  of  the  house,  the 


THE  HAUNTING  183 

illusion  of  the  settle  and  of  what  lay  on  the  settle, 
were  shadows  that  had  become  visible  because  the 
feelings  that  had  prompted  and  carried  through  his 
action  had  been  intense. 

The  shadow  of  a  deed  ! 

Was  it  only  that  ? 

If  only  a  shadow,  why  did  it  not  remain  as  it  was  at 
first  ?  From  day  to  day  it — yes,  it  altered.  The 
flagon  had  at  first  been  almost  imperceptible.  Now  it 
stood  out  definite,  recognizable,  an  actual  glass  vessel ; 
stood  on  the  red  and  white  cloth  with  which  Antiks  had 
covered  the  sideboard.  Mr.  Corlyon  felt  that  no  one 
looking  in  that  direction  could  fail  to  see  it.  Moreover, 
at  the  beginning  it  had  come  with  the  dusk,  glimmered 
through  the  hours  of  darkness,  vanished  at  dawn. 
It  was  now  always  to  be  seen  amid  the  array  of  ware, 
only  it  was  more  distinct  than  cloam  or  pewter  ;  while, 
as  to  the  grey  beer-jug,  that  had  become  a  shadow  of 
its  rotund,  opaque  self.  It  was  the  same  with  the 
appearances  in  the  kitchen.  At  first  they  had  seemed 
not  so  much  actually  in  the  room  as  at  the  back  of  his 
mind.  Gradually  they  had  come  forward,  become 
faintly  visible  ;  now  .  .  . 

What  would  happen  next  ?  He  had  the  feeling 
that  he  knew  ;  yet,  when  he  tried  to  look  at  his  know- 
ledge, it  was  not  there.  But,  shadows  ?  They  were 
more  than  that  .  .  . 

His  glance  followed  the  glints  which  danced  in  a 
faint  glow,  a  glow  of  lighted  water,  but  he  hardly  saw 
them.  He  was  wondering  whether  the  haunt  had  not 
a  sort  of  life. 

It  grew  and  it  developed.  It  seemed  to  him  not  so 
much  a  shadow  as  a  fungus.  He  had  heard  of  houses 
being  attacked  by  a  fungus,  by  monstrous  growths 


184  THE  HAUNTING 

that  sprouted  from  walls  and  floor,  fleshy  yellow 
hands  that  grew  and  grew.  The  apparitions  were  a 
sort  of  ghostly  fungus,  which  had  invaded  his  home. 
What  could  he  do  to  rid  himself  of  it  ?  He  did  not 
know.  , 

Meanwhile  he  must  take  certain  measures.  If 
Antiks  had  seen  the  flagon,  no  particular  harm  would 
have  ensued.  The  settle  was  a  different  matter.  If 
she  caught  sight  of  what  lay  on  it,  though  she  promised 
not  to  talk,  she  would  not  be  able  to  help  herself. 
It  would  become  known  that  the  Brown  House  was 
haunted,  not  by  some  old-time  ghost,  but  by  "  young 
maister." 

His  hands  went  to  his  throat.  They  could  not  prove 
it  1  Oh,  but  they  could — the  dunnage  in  the  cave, 
the  cairn  of  fallen  rocks  at  the  end  of  the  fogou. 
They  would  not  rest,  once  they  got  scent  of  the  matter, 
till  they  had  dug  down  .  .  . 

He  had  done  righteously,  he  was  passionately  con- 
vinced that  he  had,  yet  the  thought  of  the  popular 
outcry,  of  the  dark  prison,  the  rope  .  .  . 

So  far,  Antiks  had  gone  about  in  her  usual  cheery 
fashion.  Had  she  ?  Once  or  twice  lately,  he  had 
caught  her  looking  at  him — a  sort  of  questioning  look. 
You  felt  before  you  saw  !  Was  she  beginning  to 
realize  how  oppressive  was  the  air  of  the  kitchen  ? 

He  dare  not  ask  her.     And  he  did  not  dare  chance  it. 


VII 

"  Whatever  'av  'ee  done  with  the  settle,  Maister  ?  " 
"  I've  got  rid  of  that." 

She  was  clearing  the  breakfast -table.     "  Nothing 
but   ole   traipsy   traade,   anyhow." 


THE  HAUNTING  185 

"  I  am  going  to  put — er — a  glass  cupboard  against 
that  wall." 

"  'Twill  come  in  very  handy." 

"  And— Antiks " 

She  paused,  the  breakfast-tray  on  her  hip.  He 
thought  how  sweet  and  morning-fresh  was  her 
face.  A  pity  she  must  go  ;  still,  he  did  not  dare 
risk  it. 

"  Now  that  my  brother  has  gone  to  live  in  Jamaica, 
I  have  decided  to  make  a  change."  He  glanced  away, 
he  did  not  want  to  see  her  face  change,  her  eyes  .  .  . 
After  all,  she  did  not  seem  to  have  noticed  that  little 
wraith  that  stood  out  so  valiantly  among  the  fading 
delft  and  pewter.  Must  he  ?  "  I- 

She  waited,  guessing  that  her  time  had  come,  feeling 
her  heart  sink. 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  Mrs.  Liddicoat." 

Antiks'  heart  sank  and  sank.  She  thought  she  must 
be  going  to  faint.  "  I  jaloused  it."  Her  hands  shook 
so  much  she  had  to  put  the  tray  down. 

At  last  Mr.  Corlyon  looked  .  .  .  that  piteous  face  ! 
He  felt  sorry,  but  his  mind  was  made  up.  "  She 
won't  want  you,  my  dear." 

Her  glance  was  submissive,  but  it  asked  a  favour. 
As  well  have  asked  it  of  the  cobbles  in  the  street. 
'  You'll  want  for  me  to  do  for  'ee  till  she  do  come, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  No— better  not." 

Her  surprise  spoke.     "  What  be  goin'  do,  then  ?  " 

"  I  can  manage  for  myself." 

"  My  dear  life,  in  a  day  or  two  the  house  'ud  be 
walkin'  from  dure  to  dure." 

"I  can't  help  it." 

She  could  not  accept  her  fate  without  making  an 


186  THE  HAUNTING 

effort  to  escape.  Her  eyes  besought  him.  "  Must 
I  go,  sir  ?  " 

"  You  can  have  your  money  to-day." 

"  Oh,  Maister,  'tis  hard  lines." 

"  When  a  thing  has  to  be  done,  it  is  no  use  wasting 
words." 

The  tears  were  rolling  over  her  cheeks,  but  there 
was  no  more  to  be  said.  She  took  up  the  tray,  was 
going  out. 

"  Antiks  ..." 

From  the  doorway  she  looked  back  at  him  aflush. 

"  That  old  settle.  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  noticed 
anything — er — anything " 

The  flush  died  away,  and  her  voice  had  a  dull 
sound.  "  What  do  'ee  mane  ?  " 

"  Well,    anything   about   it,   anything   strange  ?  " 

"  Iss,  I  'av  then."  She  paused,  but  he  did  not 
speak.  "  I  didn'  think  of  sayin'  anything  about  it." 

"  What  did  you  see  ?  " 

"  'Twadn't  what  I  see,  but  what  I  heered." 

In  Mr.  Corlyon's  ear  was  the  sound  of  a  breathing 
that  caught,  that  started  again.  "  What — what 
did  you  hear  ?  " 

"  I  heered  the  tickin',  the  sign  o'  death.  God's 
truth,  I  did." 

Mr.  Corlyon  sank  back  in  his  chair.  "  Oh,  that  !  " 
His  relief  was  so  great  he  could  have  laughed.  "  That 
is  only  an  insect  gnawing  the  wood  ;  nothing  in  that, 
Antiks." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MORWENNA 
I 

ANTIKS  was  gone. 

Mr.  Corlyon  need  not  fear  that  what  happened 
in  the  Brown  House  would  sift  through  Stowe. 

Often,  people  neither  saw  nor  heard  things,  only 
felt  them,  felt  them  with  what  lay  behind  the  senses. 
He  wondered  what  it  might  be  ?  Instinct  ?  Dogs, 
cats,  horses,  they  were  able  to  recognize  the — he 
supposed  he  must  call  it  the  uncanny.  He  had  seen 
animals  looking  at,  shrinking  from  what,  well,  what 
was  not  there — at  any  rate,  not  visibly  there.  He 
had  known  a  horse  start,  grow  damp  with  terror 
in  a  wide  and  apparently  clear  road.  He  remembered 
the  story  of  Balaam's  ass — that  was  the  sort  of  thing. 

But  Antiks  did  not  appear  to  have  this  instinct. 
At  least,  she  had  not  noticed  that  anything  was  the 
matter  with  him,  or  his  house.  She  had  gone 
unwillingly,  but  had  not  carried  with  her  a  suspicion 
of  wraiths  and  hauntings. 

He  was  glad  she  was  gone.  With  the  haunt  showing 
signs  of  further  development,  in  another  day  or  two 
she  might  have  begun  to  notice.  He  felt  that  he 
had  settled  with  that  menace.  At  all  costs,  the 
appearances  must  be  kept  a  secret.  As  long  as  he 
was  the  only  person  who  knew  of  them,  they  were 

187 


188  THE  HAUNTING 

of  no  importance,  could  not  do  him  any  harm.  As 
long  as  other  people  ... 

Gazing  steadily  at  the  flagon,  puzzling  over  the 
gleams  of  the  prismatic  glass — gleams  in  a  thing  that 
was  not  really  there — he  asked  himself  how  people 
could  let  their  nerves  be  affected  by  a  thing  so 
harmless.  A  haunt  was  as  useless  as  an  ornament, 
and  of  no  more  account.  An  ornament  ?  He  smiled 
at  the  thought  of  housewives  saying,  "  Our  little 
ghost  ?  Yes,  it  is  in  the  shape  of  an  old  Greek  statue. 
A  handsome  object  to  have  about  the  house.  Oh, 
no,  we  would  not  be  without  it.  A  house  without 
a  ghost  suggests  that  one  has  been  overlooked  by 
Father  Time." 

If  everybody  saw  the  haunts  that  lived  with  them  ! 
The  trouble  was  that  as  only  certain  apparitions  were 
visible,  people  made  a  fuss  about  those  they  could 
perceive.  A  fuss  ?  They  behaved  like  children. 

The  haunt  itself  was  of  no  importance,  what 
mattered  was  its  effect  on  others.  He  must  contrive 
that  the  existence  of  his  should  not  be  known.  He 
must  not  let  anyone  guess  that  the  Brown  House 
was  in  any  way  different  from  the  other  houses  set 
higgledy-piggledy  along  the  antient  street. 


ii 

Mr.  Corlyon,  with  the  threads  of  Stowe  life  running 
through  his  hands,  had  yet  found  time  to  turn  a 
considering  eye  on  the  women,  busy  with  their  sweep- 
ing and  scouring.  He  thought  much  of  it  a  waste 
of  time.  He  could  boil  a  kettle  !  Yes,  and  cook 
eggs,  and  even  potatoes,  so  he  would  not  starve  ; 
but  as  to  turning  out  a  room  !  If  his  bedroom  grew 


THE  HAUNTING  189 

fusty  he  would  move  into  another — plenty  of  rooms 
in  the  house.  Women  dilly-dallied  about  their  work. 
Why  turn  out  one  room  a  day  when  you  might 
have  them  all  cleaned  at  once  ?  If  household  work 
were  properly  organized,  the  bulk  of  it  would  be  done 
on  one  day  of  the  week.  Still — after  all,  not  only 
women  pottered. 

He  would  miss  Antiks,  but  he  could  manage,  and 
it  would  not  be  for  long.  Morwenna  would  be  troubled 
when  she  discovered  he  was  by  himself  in  the  house. 
She  would  want  to  come  to  him. 

And  he  needed  her  !  Not  for  the  bodily  comfort, 
though  that  was  what  she  would  think,  and  it  was 
as  well  she  should  ;  but — 

He  had  tried  to  convince  himself  he  did  not  object 
to  the  presence  on  his  sideboard  of  the  little  glass 
flagon.  Nor  when  he  had  slept  well  and  was  morning 
fresh,  when  the  day  was  bright,  and  his  mood  cheerful, 
did  he  mind  it.  But  there  were  times  .  .  .  yes, 
as  night  drew  on  things  looked  different. 

As  the  sun  sank  below  Gudda,  and  the  blue  of  the 
sky  and  of  the  shadows  deepened,  a  man's  point  of 
view  changed.  The  dark  was  full  of  incomprehensible 
sound.  You  listened,  trying  to  account  for  this 
little  pregnant  noise,  for  that.  You  heard  the  stairs 
creak  as  when  Pascoe  had  carried  down  his  dunnage  ; 
you  heard  steps  that  had  been  long  familiar,  steps 
that  no  longer  walked  the  house — at  least  by  day. 

If  Morwenna  were  in  the  Brown  House,  he  would 
not  hear  those  significant  sounds.  He  would  be  listen- 
ing to  her  quiet  talk. 

All  day,  while  transacting  his  business  in  the  town, 
he  would  have  in  his  mind  the  good  thought  that  he 
was  going  back  to  her,  to  that  warm  smile.  When 


190  THE  HAUNTING 

night  was  folded  black  about  the  house,  her  figure 
would  come  between  his  eye  and  the  glitter  of  un- 
substantial glass,  between  him  and  the  settle  which 
he  had  so  ineffectually  burnt. 

His  new  self,  the  self  he  had  learnt  to  fear  as  full 
of  untoward  possibilities,  would  sink  into  the  back- 
ground, would  fall  asleep.  His  old,  stable  self  would 
take  control.  She,  Morwenna,  was  a  simple  soul, 
robust,  of  all  women  the  one  for  him.  They  would 
be  married  as  soon  as  possible.  He  would  bring 
her  .  .  . 

Did  he  dare  ? 

If  he  brought  her  to  the  Brown  House,  she  might, 
in  time,  become  aware  of  the  haunt.  It  was  possible. 
It  was  more  than  that — it  was  likely,  in  fact,  how 
could  he  doubt  that  it  would  happen  ?  The  wraiths 
grew  out  of  nothing  ;  were,  first  a  feeling,  then  an 
inexplicable  fear,  then  a  shape. 

If  only  in  some  violent  way  he  could  have  destroyed 
them.  The  tremendous  satisfaction  of  it  !  But  he 
could  think  of  no  way  .  .  . 


in 

Could  he  endure  to  look  on,  see  the  vague  doubt, 
the  unpreventable  strengthening  of  that  doubt, 
the  final  certitude  ?  That  certitude  !  That  she 
should  know  he  had  killed  Pascoe  ! 

And  she  would. 

The  thought  was  agony.  He  had  done  righteously. 
Oh,  yes,  he -had.  He  was  convinced  of  it,  but  she 
.  .  .  she  might  not  be  able  to  see  eye  to  eye  with 
him.  And  if  she  could  not  ?  He  might  explain, 
tell  her  everything,  and  it  might  not  make  any 


THE  HAUNTING  191 

difference.  "  A  woman  convinced  against  her  will 
.  .  ."  It  was  necessary  that  she  should  be  with  him, 
necessary  for  his  happiness,  for  more  than  his  happi- 
ness. She  must  uphold  him,  his  actions,  his  point 
of  view.  Ah,  but  would  she  ?  Could  he  trust  her  ? 
His  brother  .  .  .  How  would  she  take  the  know- 
ledge ?  Would  she  sit  in  judgment,  would  she — 
condemn  ?  Even  if  he  explained,  could  he  trust  her 
to  think  as  he  thought  ?  He  was  assured  she  loved 
him — at  the  moment.  But,  love — 

He  had  been  sure  that  Pascoe  loved  him.  Pascoe's 
love  !  Why  should  he  imagine  that  Morwenna's 
was  of  more  sterling  quality  ?  Once  bit  .  .  .  After 
all,  love,  what  was  it  but  another  name  for  desire  ? 
And  desire  passed.  Once  it  was  satisfied  it  passed. 

Man  slaked  his  thirst  at  a  stream,  then  wandered 
on.  No  sort  of  permanence,  but  a  long  road  starred 
with  lamps.  Under  each  of  them  he  paused  for  a 
moment ;  but,  in  the  end,  always,  he  went  on, 
uphill  when  he  was  young,  downhill  when  he  was 
old.  Somewhere  on  the  road  he  paused  to  rest, 
to  sleep — perhaps  between  two  of  the  stars. 

Morwenna  might  think  differently  of  love  ;  but 
then,  she  was  a  woman.  She  would  see  it  as  a  fire 
on  the  hearth,  a  moderate  flame  hedged  round  with 
the  respectability  of  home  walls.  To  her,  love  would 
not  be  so  much  passion  as  affection. 

Yet,when  she  looked  at  him,there  had  been  a  kindling 
in  the  grey  eyes,  an  emotion  he  could  not  fathom. 
It  was  a  look  that  had  thrilled  him,  to  which  some- 
thing in  the  deeps  of  him  had  responded.  He  wanted 
her  to  go  on  looking  at  him  like  that. 

Ah,  but — the  emotion  of  a  middle-aged  woman  ! 
It  could  not  burn  white-hot  for  long.  He  must  be 


192  THE  HAUNTING 

prepared  for  a  damping  down  of  the  fires,  for  the 
mere  glow  of  companionship. 

He  wanted  that  rapturous,  .adoring  surrender  to 
go  on  and  on.  It  was  like  the  darkly  red  and  darkly 
brown  fields.  They  yielded  to  the  ploughman's 
will  with  a  tremendous  giving  of  corn,  yet  underneath 
was  their  unchanging  stability.  Morwenna's  love 
was  to  be  like  the  ground  under  his  feet ;  "  rock  all 
de  way  down,"  as  she  had  said.  Pascoe's  conduct  had 
proved  human  affection  to  be  slight  and  shallow, 
yet  Gale  still  hoped.  The  world  had  shaken  under 
him,  had  snared  his  foot ;  and  he  was  trying  to 
escape  from  it  on  to  "  hard  country."  He  longed  to 
believe  Morwenna  capable  of  a  deep  and  abiding  love  ; 
and  yet,  how  could  he  ?  Love  o'  woman  !  He  had 
experienced  it.  It  passed,  it  always  passed.  Six 
months,  or  at  the  outside  a  year,  and  it  was  over. 
Why  should  Morwenna  be  different  ?  How  could 
she  be  ?  Yet  he  needed  a  love  that  understood  and 
would  endure  ;  he  wanted  her  to  bring  him  such  a 
love. 

If  she  were  to  find  out  that  he  had  killed  his  brother, 
he  might  give  up  hope  of  it.  No  quiet,  civilized 
woman  could  make  such  a  discovery — and  not  be 
overwhelmed  with  horror.  If  he  brought  Morwenna 
to  the  Brown  House,  he  must  be  prepared  to  watch 
the  tide  of  knowledge  flow  over  her  love,  drowning 
it  as  the  tide  in  the  estuary  drowned  the  yellow 
sands. 

He  would  not  be  able  to  endure  that  gradual  passing 
of  love,  the  dying  of  it,  the  change  from  absolute 
trust  to  suspicion,  to  knowledge,  perhaps  to  fear. 

To  a  fear  of  him — oh,  no,  no. 

Sunk  in  the  great  chair,  he  sat  with  his  head  between 


THE  HAUNTING  193 

his  hands,  shivering.  Morwenna's  face  as  it  was  now, 
that  dear,  open,  love-lighted  face  was  clear  in  memory. 
He  saw  it  changing,  losing  its  doubt,  its  eagerness, 
growing  blank.  She  would  still  smile,  but  behind 
her  smile — 

She  was  the  sort  of  woman  who,  in  her  relations 
with  people,  would  keep  up  appearances.  He  could 
imagine  her  hanging  a  cuitain  between  their  souls. 
Her  civil  speech  would  be  the  shaking  of  the  curtain, 
she  would  pretend  he  had  her  confidence,  her  unabated 
love  ;  but  he  would  know,  he  would  not  be  able  to 
help  knowing. 

Each  little  sign,  he  would  see  it  !  It  would  be 
torture. 

He  would  be  helpless,  unable  to  get  away.  He 
would  have  to  watch  Morwenna's  soul  grow  furtive, 
peer  at  him  secretly.  She  would  be  afraid  ;  yes, 
in  the  end,  she  would  be  afraid  for  herself. 


IV 

He  knew,  knew  with  searing  conviction,  that 
he  could  not  bring  her  to  the  Brown  House. 

He  was  strong,  strong-bodied,  and  with  a  sceptical 
hard -fibred  brain.  About  him  like  a  tangible  thing 
lay  the  loneliness  of  his  life,  but  he  had  hitherto 
been  able  to  put  up  with  it.  What  he  had  done 
he  could  do  again.  A  man  had  to  be  strong,  not  for 
his  own  sake,  but  to  satisfy  a  demand  which  had 
grown  with  and  was  at  the  core  of  humanity,  to 
satisfy  the  spirit  of  man. 

At  the  last,  a  man  died,  but  he  did  not  give  in  ; 
he  could  not  let  himself — break. 

It   was   Thursday.     The   evening   he   was   in   the 


194  THE  HAUNTING 

habit  of  spending  in  the  room  behind  the  baby-linen 
shop.  Morwenna  would  be  waiting.  She  would 
have  prepared  supper,  thought  out  a  tasty  dish, 
cooked  it — and  she  would  be  alone. 

Jenifer  was  married  and  gone.  He  would  have 
had  Morwenna  to  himself. 

But  he  must  not  go. 

She  would  be  at  the  half-door  that  gave  on  the 
street.  She  would  be  looking  out  for  him. 

She  would  wait ;  and  in  the  Brown  House  he  also 
would  wait  . 


CHAPTER  XVII 


A  NEW  thought  falling  into  his  mind  filled  it  with 
joy.  .  .  .  Why  should  he  not  shut  up  the  Brown 
House  and  live  with  Morwenna  in  the  baby-linen 
shop  ? 

He  was  amazed  that  such  a  simple  way  out  of  the 
difficulty  had  not  already  occurred  to  him.  An  easy  way! 
His  desk  could  be  put  by  the  window  in  the  back 
room.  He  could  see  his  clients  there  —  and  Morwenna 
was  the  kind  of  woman  who  knew  how  to  make 
herself  scarce.  She  seemed  to  have  an  instinct  about 
it.  Dear  woman,  she  was  really  wonderful  .  .  . 

He  sat  back,  smiling  ! 

Thursday  !  Of  course,  it  was  Thursday  !  He  must 
not  keep  her  waiting.  His  hat  !  Christ  —  how  keen 
and  jolly  and  alive  he  felt. 


To  her  lover  Morwenna  had  made  no  secret  of  the 
reason  which  had  induced  Jenifer  to  marry  Denny 
Manhire.  "  She  was  straight  with'n,  and  he  would 
not  let  it  make  any  difference.  No  such  woman  in 
the  world,  he  say,  as  Jenifer.  She  don't  care  for'n 
now,  but  she'll  come  to  it.  He've  treated  her  jonik, 
and  that  is  more  than  the  other  did.  In  time  a  maid 
learns  to  take  what  is  offered." 

195 


196  THE  HAUNTING 

Mr.  Corlyon  could  feel  sorry  for  Jenifer.  Sub- 
mission where  there  was  no  love  must  be  nauseating. 
"  Who  was  it  ?  " 

"  Aw.  you  do  knaw  who  'twas,"  and  Mrs. 
Liddicoat's  face  broke  into  that  smile  of  the  eyes, 
that  smile  behind  the  eyes  that  he  had  learned  to 
look  for.  With  other  women,  Corlyon  had  watched 
their  lips,  with  Morwenna,  the  full  firm  lips  curving 
up  were  less  expressive  than  the  glow  in  the  eyes. 

"  Pascoe  ?  "  he  said,  his  mouth  a  line.  The 
treacherous  hound  had  behaved  ill  to  everybody 
with  whom  he  came  into  contact.  He  stole  a  glance 
at  Morwenna.  If  she  knew — she  should  be  glad 
that  Jenifer  was  avenged,  that  Pascoe  would  do  no 
more  harm  ! 

"  Yes,  'twas  Pascoe,"  she  murmured,  and  her 
expression  was  inward,  as  if  she  were  seeing  something 
which  as  yet  only  existed  in  her  dreams.  "  I  don't 
belong  to  be  glad,  but  I  be." 

"  Glad  ?  " 

"  'Twill  be  like  as  if  'twas  yours."  She  was  seeing 
Jenifer's  children.  Little  steps,  curly  nobs  and 
pigtails,  with,  at  the  head  of  them,  a  splendid  boy, 
a  boy  like  Gale. 

"  Lord,  no.  You  must  not  say  that.  Pascoe's 
child  won't  take  after  me  !  " 

He  was  lying  along  the  sofa,  his  head  in  her  lap. 
The  feel,  under  her  hand,  of  the  crisp  hair  was  sending 
thrills  of  fire  up  her  arm,  and  because  she  felt  so 
strongly  the  fact  that  Jenifer,  her  child,  was  bearing 
a  son  to  Pascoe  seemed  to  medicine  something  that 
ached  a  little.  He  had  said  that  Pascoe's  child  would 
not  take  after  him.  Why  should  it  not  ?  "  I'm 
hoping  it  will  then." 


THE  HAUNTING  197 

Pascoe's  child  !  It  would  be  Pascoe  over  again. 
It  would  remind  him  .  .  .  but  no  matter,  he  could 
look  it  in  the  face.  "  He  was  only  my  half-brother, 
he  was  not  like  me." 

"  But  they  do  say  you  are  your  father  over  again. 
The  li'l  chap  may  take  after's  Grandfer." 

Like  himself  or  Pascoe,  however,  the  coming 
child  was  to  Gale  unwelcome.  "  I  like  children, 
who  doesn't  ?  But  I  had  sooner  my  nephew  was  not 
a  bastard." 

Morwenna's  hand  left  off  stroking.  "  Well,"  she 
said,  "  if  no  one  else  is  glad  of'n,  I  am."  She  thought 
of  the  women  with  whom  at  one  time  or  another, 
Gale's  name  had  been  coupled — pretty  and  nothing 
else,  or  pretty  and  easy.  As  she  put  it — "  very 
tawdry."  Not  the  sort  to  have  given  him  sons  like 
himself.  Ah-h,  to  think  none  should  have  given 
him  a  son. !  The  silly  bits  of  things,  not  to  have  known 
it  did  not  matter  whether  a  child  had  its  father's 
name,  if  only  'twas  made  in  his  image — him  not 
finished  with  when  he  came  to  die,  but  going 
on. 

Her  glance  rested  on  the  dear  head,  relaxed  in 
peace  against  her  soft  fullness.  To  have  had  Gale's 
eyes  look  from  a  babe's  face,  from  the  babe  at  your 
breast — that  any  woman  who  loved  him  should 
have  been  able  to  forgo  that  ! 

She  leaned  back  against  the  sofa  dreaming.  Her 
sons,  Edgar  and  Tristram,  were  fine  men,  the  both 
of  them.  But  if  she  had  been  Gale's  wife,  what 
splendid  sons  she  would  have  had.  Poor  old  Peter, 
but — well,  he  was  dead  ;  and  she,  heart  and  body 
of  her,  she  belonged  to  Gale.  It  seemed  as  if  she 
always  had.  The  other  life  was  like  a  vision,  grey, 


198  THE  HAUNTING 

half-forgotten — yes,    though   she    had   the    children 
to  show  for  it. 

"Go  on  stroking  my  hair."  He  was  postponing 
the  discussion  of  their  future,  enjoying  the  calm, 
the  quiet.  He  had  solved  his  difficulties,  and  he  had 
only  to  tell  the  dear  woman  what  he  intended  to  do. 
She  would  be  glad  to  have  him.  Pleasanter  for  her 
to  stay  where  she  was,  all  her  odds  and  ends  to  hand, 
than  move  ;  and  he,  too,  would  be  glad  of  the  change. 
He  had  never  thought  to  leave  the  Brown  House. 
Nor  would  he  now,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Pascoe. 

The  serene  atmosphere  of  the  kitchen  was  pleasant, 
homely.  He  longed  to  stay  on,  not  return  to  the 
living  death  on  Quayside,  but  that  might  not  be. 
Already,  he  was  faintly  conscious  of  a  pull,  as  if  he 
were  needed  in  his  own  house,  were  being  called  back. 

Must  he  go  ?  Perhaps,  if  Morwenna  continued  to 
smooth  his  hair,  it  would  make  him  forget  the  little 
pull,  enable  him  to  stay.  "  Go  on." 

She  was  glad  her  touch  gave  him  pleasure.  He 
should  not  have  mis-called  the  child,  poor  little 
innocent,  and  if  he  had  been  a  woman,  and  had  had 
the  bearing  of  children  he  would  have  known  better. 
Still,  men,  poor  creatures,  they  were  like  that,  they 
never  really  understood.  She  went  on,  drawing  her 
fingers  over  the  hard  hairs.  She  liked  that  he  was, 
in  essential  matters,  so  ignorant. 


HI 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  wanted  children,"  he 
said,  meaning  that  he  did  not  want  them  now. 

Morwenna  thought  it  only  natural.  A  middle- 
aged  man  !  She  gave  him  her  view  of  the  matter. 


THE  HAUNTING  199 

"  No,  but  I'd  like  for  you  to  have  had  a  boy,  a  boy 
as  'ud  have  been  you  over  again." 

"  I  don't  know.  Better  not,  perhaps."  In  the 
new  grate  the  embers  fell  from  the  fire-spot  with  a 
little  tinkle.  Mr.  Corlyon's  glance  rested  on  that 
comfortable  stir.  It  was  like  Morwenna  to  be  the 
one  person  with  the  pluck  to  try  something  new,  the 
one  person  in  Stowe.  A  forthcoming,  eager,  genial 
woman — would  she  be  able  to  help  him  ?  Well, 
if  anyone  could,  she  might.  After  they  were  married 
he  might  venture  to  tell  her  ;  yes,  when  their  interests 
were  the  same.  Ah,  but  no.  Now,  or  not  at  all. 
He  would  treat  her  as  fairly  as  she  had  treated  him. 

He  could  not  utter  the  words.  He  would  do  any- 
thing but  tell  her,  and  yet,  if  he  only  could  .  .  . 

Morwenna's  glance  brooded.  She  was  looking 
down  on  the  features  that  were  always  a  surprise,  an 
enchantment. 

The  comeliness  of  them  drew  her  irresistibly. 
That  he  should  love  her.  Stooping,  she  let  her  lips 
rest  on  his  forehead.  It  was  warm  because  he  was 
alive,  and  the  warmth  came  from  his  quietly  beating 
heart.  The  tears  rose  in  her  eyes — she  was  so  happy. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  be  all  right  as  long  as  I 
have  you." 

As  he  spoke  he  turned  from  the  fire  to  the  woman 
who  had  kindled  it ;  and  at  his  look,  she  thrilled 
from  her  lips  down.  The  thrill  was  only  bearable 
because  he  was  near,  because  she  might  lose  herself 
in  it.  He  wanted  her — not  children — just  her.  She 
glowed,  stirring  a  little.  She  could  not  come  any 
nearer,  but  she  was  flowering  towards  him,  offering 
all  she  had,  all  she  was. 

In  the  muteness  of  ecstasy  she  sat  very  still,  her 


200  THE  HAUNTING 

cheek  against  his.  She  had  the  human  warmth  of 
that  cheek,  the  thrill  of  his  skin  on  hers.  He  was 
the  most  darling  man  in  all  the  world,  the  most  won- 
derful. 

She  was  not  to  do  her  woman's  duty  and  give 
that  strength  and  beauty  back  to  life.  Perhaps  she 
did  not  want  to,  not  altogether,  not  very  much. 
It  would  have  been  an  effort,  taken  a  long  time, 
and  as  you  grew  older  you  got  so  quickly  tired. 
Besides,  a  child  would  have  taken  up  her  time, 
and  Gale  did  not  want  to  have  only  bits  of  her,  but 
the  whole.  And,  in  the  same  way,  she  wanted  him. 
As  his  mother  had  had  him  when  he  was  young, 
so  Morwenna  wanted  to  enfold  and  cherish  him  now. 

Their  life  together,  it  was  going  to  be  perfect  ! 
Her  pleasure  to  work  for  him,  to  make  him  happy. 
He  had  been  lonely,  hers  to  show  him  what  com- 
panionship could  mean.  She  would  be  to  him  what 
the  nail  is  to  the  finger,  the  eyelash  to  the  eye. 


IV 

The  need  for  haste  had  come  upon  Mr.  Corlyon. 
He  was  conscious  of  a  noisy  undertow  which,  against 
his  will,  was  dragging  him  from  this  place  of  peace. 
As  long  as  Morwenna's  hand  had  moved  over  his  hair, 
stroking,  he  had  been  able  to  ignore  the  steady  strain 
on  his  will.  It  was  more  than  a  strain,  it  was  a  sound, 
sounds,  broken,  and  yet  significant  sounds.  It  was 
invading  his  mind  and,  if  he  wanted  to  talk  to  Mor- 
wenna of  the  future,  he  must  make  haste.  The  sounds 
were  filling  his  mind,  preventing  him.  They  were 
an  outcry  of  words,  jumbled,  and  they  came  in  like 
a  tide. 


THE  HAUNTING  201 

"  Sooner'n  you  think  for  !  You'll  see  me  .  .  .  not 
far  .  .  .  come  back  .  .  .  you  will  see  me  sooner 
than  you  think  for  !  When  a  chap  wants  to  come 
back  ..." 

He  turned  to  Morwenna.  Ah,  surely  she  could 
silence  the  voice  ? 

"  What  is  it,  love  ?  " 

He  must  not  tell  her.  He  had  trusted  Pascoe, 
and  Pascoe  had  betrayed  him.  His  secret  must 
be  kept  from  everyone ;  even  from  Morwenna. 
All  his  life  he  had  kept  secrets,  made  no  bones  about 
it.  Why  should  he  even  think  of  taking  Morwenna 
into  his  confidence  ?  He  knew  why.  It  was  because 
if  he  told  this,  shared  it,  he  would  halve  the  burthen 
of  it.  He  had  a  feeling  that  if  he  were  able  to  tell  it, 
not  only  half,  but  all  his  trouble  would  vanish.  But 
no,  he  must  not  tell.  Besides,  he  did  not  think  he 
could. 

Half  sentences,  recollected  words,  a  voice.  He  was 
being  called  away,  back  to  the  Brown  House.  He 
did  not  want  to  go.  If  Morwenna,  with  the  weak, 
unbreakable  chain  of  her  arms  would  only  prevent 
him  ! 

"  Sooner  than  you  think  for."  The  nonsense  of  it  ! 
See  dead  and  buried  Pascoe  ?  But  he  did  see  him. 
He  saw  him  on  the  settle.  No  denying  that  Pascoe 
was  in  the  house.  There  and  visible.  He  realized 
strongly  that  on  no  account  must  he  let  anyone  into 
it.  Best,  then,  not  to  let  Morwenna  know  Antiks 
was  gone.  Why,  good  heavens,  she  might  insist  on 
coming  over  !  Might  want  to  get  his  breakfast,  or 
some  woman's  foolery.  Yet  he  had  to  discuss  his 
change  of  plan  .  .  . 

Hesitatingly,  he  began  to  talk.    The  Brown  House, 


202  THE  HAUNTING 

being  down  on  Quayside,  was  a  bit  out  of  the  way. 
How — if  instead  of  her  coming  to  him,  it  were  to  be 
the  other  way  about  ?  If  he  lived  at  the  baby-linen 
shop,  his  clients  going  through  the  town  would  be 
able  to  pop  in  any  time.  He  got  up  from  the  sofa, 
began  to  walk  up  and  down. 

Only  by  walking  about  could  he  keep  under  his 
impulse  to  go.  Something  was  pulling  at  him,  some- 
thing he  would  not  be  able,  much  longer,  to  resist. 
He  was  away  from  the  Brown  House,  and  anything 
might  be  happening.  But  it  was  not  that,  not  only 
that.  The  something  came  from  his  underlying  self, 
impelling  him  powerfully,  yes,  irresistibly. 

Morwenna  saw  the  new  plan  as  sensible.  Her 
house  was  on  a  main  street,  you  passed  through  it 
coming  from  the  coast  villages,  going  to  the  fish 
market,  the  warehouses.  Also,  it  was  large  enough 
— shop,  kitchen,  and  the  big  room  overs tairs.  What 
more  did  they  want  ? 

"  Turn  the  shop  into  an  office  for  you  ?  " 

He  had  not  thought  of  that ;  but  yes,  it  was  a 
good  idea.  He  did  not  want  her  to  work — except 
for  him. 

"  I'll  get  rids  of  my  stuff,  and  of  the  counter  and 
shelves,"  she  planned  ;  "  and  you  can  bring  your 
desk  over,  soon  as  you've  a  mind  to." 

"Then  that  is  settled  !  "  His  walking  to  and  fro 
had  quickened,  he  was  showing  a  restlessness  that 
puzzled  her.  When  he  arrived,  she  would  have 
thought,  so  glad  was  he  to  be  with  her,  that  he  would 
be  sorry  when  the  time  came  for  him  to  go.  But  he 
was  evidently  in  a  hurry. 

The  voice  in  Mr.  Corlyon's  mind  was  reiterating 
its  monotonous  : — "  When  a  chap  wants —  The 


THE  HAUNTING  208 

voice  was  so  loud,  the  impulse  to  go  so  strong,  that 
he  hardly  heard  or  saw  Morwenna. 

He  struggled  into  his  thick  coat,  and,  at  the  last, 
his  thoughts  came  back  for  a  moment  to  the  woman. 
Flinging  his  arm  clumsily  across  her  shoulders,  he 
kissed  her,  and  the  kiss  was  hearty  like  a  boy's.  He 
was  fond  of  her,  but — he  must  go. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


MR.  CORLYON  stood  in  the  passage  between  the  rooms. 
Nothing  in  the  passage.  A  quiet  place,  and  dark. 
He  stood  there  thinking.  In  the  parlour  the  little 
flagon  dominated  the  array  of  ware,  in  the  kitchen 
was  that  disordered  supper-table.  He  no  longer 
had  his  meals  at  it.  Sometimes,  when  he  caught 
sight  of  it  unexpectedly,  his  gorge  rose  and  he  longed 
to  deal  with  it  as  he  had  with  the  settle. 

No  use  trying  to  destroy  it.  You  might  burn  the 
wood,  and  yet  something  would  remain — a  semblance. 
The  wave  of  irritation  receded,  leaving  a  black  residue. 
What  could  he  do  ?  As  he  stood  with  his  hands  on 
the  lintel  of  either  door  he  felt  sick,  hunted.  The 
haunt  had  grown — was  growing.  At  first  it  had  been 
confined  to  the  sitting-room.  Before  long  it  had 
spread  to  the  kitchen,  and  Mr.  Corlyon  was  expectant 
of  further  developments,  expectant  and  troubled. 
Night  always  brought  that  sense  of  trouble,  of  dim 
reaching  out  to  knowledge. 

Pascoe  lay  on  the  settle — he  would  not  always  lie 
there. 

Up  to  the  present,  the  shadows  that  had  taken 
possession  of  the  Brown  House  had  not  moved,  but 
they  might. 

He  knew  that,  in  time,  they  would. 

204 


THE   HAUNTING  205 

What  he  did  not  know,  what  he  could  not  imagine, 
was  what  they  would  do. 

Pascoe's  design  was  to  let  people  know  what  had 
happened  to  him.  How  would  he  set  about  it  ? 

Mr.  Corlyon,  unable  to  guess,  felt  that  he  must  be 
on  the  look-out  and  ready.  That  night  he  had  left 
the  house,  locking  the  door  behind  him,  had  trusted 
to  luck.  He  must  not  do  it  again.  Certainly,  as  far 
as  he  could  see,  nothing  had  happened.  It  was 
what  might  that  would  keep  him  on  the  spot.  He 
could  not  leave  Pascoe  to  do  as  he  would. 

How  peaceful  it  had  been  in  the  baby-linen  shop  ! 
While  there,  he  had  felt  safe,  at  least,  he  had  at  first. 
Later  .  .  . 

It  was  not  only  that  during  his  absence  things  of 
dread  and  horror  might  be  shaping.  It  was  the 
feeling  that  he  must  be  in  the  midst  of  those  happen- 
ings, that  he  must  know.  In  Morwenna's  back  room, 
in  its  calm,  good,  restful  atmosphere,  he  had  been 
unable  to  keep  his  thoughts  from  straying  to  Quayside. 
What  was  happening  behind  his  own  locked  door, 
in  the  rooms  he  knew  as  he  knew  his  own  body  ? 
He  had  been  obliged  to  go  and  see. 

The  haunt  had  drawn  him  back,  and  what  had 
happened  once  might  happen  again.  If  he  were  living 
at  the  baby-linen  shop  he  might — would — be  uneasy, 
would  perhaps  be  unable  to  stop.  The  skop  was  a 
refuge,  but  how  if  he  were  unable  to  avail  himself 
of  it? 

Standing  between  the  doors,  his  body  swayed  a 
little,  swayed  with  his  mind.  He  could  not  bring 
Morwenna  to  the  Brown  House,  he  was  not  able 'to 
leave  it. 

It  was  nothing  to  him  that  a  shadow  lay  on  the 


206  THE  HAUNTING 

settle,  that  it  was  black,  and  the  blackness  cold  as 
winter.  He  could  go  further  and  say  it  was  nothing 
to  him  that  the  shadow  might  move,  but  .  .  . 

He  must  be  there  to  see  it  move. 

It  was  exacted  of  him  that  he  should  be  there.  He 
would  have  escaped  to  Morwenna  ;  but  he  was  like 
a  dog  on  a  chain,  and  it  pulled  him  back. 

That  very  evening  he  had  put  it  to  the  test. 

His  hands  dropped  from  the  lintels,  he  sank  in 
on  himself.  The  outlook  was  black,  and  there  was 
no  star  in  the  sky.  He  could  not  have  Morwenna 
on  any  terms. 


ii 

The  night  was  to  Mr.  Corlyon  the  right  setting  for 
his  mood.  Hitherto  a  man  of  transitory  affections, 
he  had  realized  that  this  late -come  love  was  as 
necessary  to  him  as  light  and  air.  He  would  not 
give  it  up.  He  would  find  a  way  of  arranging  matters 
so  that  he  might  keep  it.  He  must,  or  life  would 
gradually  become  impossible. 

He  sought  desperately,  sought  through  the  night, 
and  every  now  and  then  the  figure  of  Morwenna  rose, 
vivid  in  memory.  When  this  happened,  his  seeking 
mind  would  fall  asleep,  give  place  to  sheer  longing. 
His  woman  !  He  had  a  vision  of  her  with  thick  hair, 
new-washed  and  flying  in  an  August  wind  under  an 
August  sky,  a  soft  cloud  of  hair  that  robbed  her  of 
her  years,  and  her  firm  mouth,  and  her  definiteness. 
Between  the  waves  of  loose  hair  he  had  seen  only  her 
eyes,  eyes  that  worshipped  and  adored. 

That  long  tender  glance  1  Could  it  be  that  he  was 
a  sick  man  with  fancies,  fancies  which  that  glance 


THE  HAUNTING  207 

of  hers,  making  him  good  and  keeping  him  man, 
was  able  to  drive  away  ? 

Fancies  ?  Was  it  possible  the  haunting  was  a 
disordered  fancy,  nothing  more  ? 

He  straightened  the  sheet  below  his  chin,  straight- 
ened his  limbs  in  the  bed.  Ah,  if  ... 

But  no,  he  could  not  think  it  !  The  apparitions 
did  not  come  from  his  mind,  they  were  nothing  to 
do  with  him.  He  could  not  believe  they  were  an 
illusion  and,  right  or  wrong,  a  man  acted  on  his  beliefs. 

His  mind  swung  between  thought -films  indelibly 
stamped  on  space,  and  a  survival.  Pascoe — the 
Pascoe  who  had  loved  Grizel  and  broken  his  promise 
to  Jenifer,  was  at  the  heart  of  Gudda.  His  body  was 
changing,  disintegrating,  becoming  one  with  the 
earth.  But  something  of  him  might  have  survived 
death. 

What  were  the  ghosts  his  neighbours  saw  ? 
Hitherto,  he  had  accounted  for  them  in  one  way  or 
another ;  he  had  not  believed  them  to  be  actually 
visible,  things  which  had  an  existence  outside  the 
imaginations  of  mankind  :  but  he  had  been  shown 
cause  to  reconsider  his  verdict. 

Pascoe,  under  a  jovial  surface,  had  been  a  fierce, 
primitive  creature.  At  the  moment  of  death  a  man 
might  find  himself  possessed  of  undreamed-of  powers. 
The  stories  of  appearances  at  a  distance  of  people 
who  were  at  that  moment  dying  suggested  that  this 
was  so.  A  phantasm  might  be  a  thing  in  itself, 
might  have  a  tenuous,  yet  material  body.  He  could 
not  deny  that  haunted  houses  made  you  feel  as  if 
you  were  watched  ;  as  if  something  lurked  in  the 
shadows,  and  waited  behind  the  doors.  He  had 
said — "  imagination,"  or  that  "  people  were  out  of 


208  THE   HAUNTING 

sorts ! "  He  no  longer  thought  that  explanation  covered 
the  ground. 

Pascoe's  furious  disappointment,  his  rage,  his  lust 
of  vengeance — these  things  might  have  survived 
his  death.  They  might  have  taken  a  certain  shape, 
might  be  animated  by  a  living  principle.  That 
principle,  Mr.  Corlyon  could  see,  would  be  Pascoe's 
hatred  of  himself,  his  indestructible  will  to  get  the 
better  of  him. 

What  had  survived  was  not  Pascoe,  but  the  evil 
of  him.  It  was  that  with  which  Mr.  Corlyon  had  to 
reckon — an  incarnate  (or  discarnate)  menace. 

"  I'll  leave  the  town  know."  That  was  what  he 
meant  to  do.  Not  Pascoe,  no,  but  what  remained 
of  him.  But  how  would  it — what—  -  ? 

Granted  the  existence  of  this  evilly-disposed  entity, 
you  did  not  know  what  were  its  powers,  its  limita- 
tions. 

He  turned  restlessly.  The  thing  was  no  illusion.* 
He  saw  what  he  thought  he  saw,  and  presently  he 
might  hear,  might  do  more  than  hear — the  possibili- 
ties were  unending.  To  another  man  they  might 
have  been  overwhelming ;  but  Gale  clenched  his 
teeth  and,  above  his  steep  chin,  his  lips  were  a  line, 
iron-hard.  He  had  beaten  Pascoe  once  :  he  would 
beat  him  again. 

Even  if  it  cost  him  Morwenna. 

Morwenna,  and  his  sanity,  and  his  life. 

He  would  stay  in  the  Brown  House,  deal  with 
each  fresh  development  as  it  came.  So  far,  he  had 
not  been  conspicuously  successful  in  getting  the 
better  of  the  haunt  ;  but  if  he  put  his  back — meaning 
his  brain — into  it,  he  stood  a  chance. 

But — Morwenna  !     That   soft   breast.      It   offered 


THE   HAUNTING  209 

itself  to  a  man's  hand,  rounded  under  it.     And  her 
kiss  .  .  .     the  swooning  sweetness  of  it. 

His  eyeballs  ached  with  the  tears  he  might  not 
shed.  In  distressful  longing,  he  flung  himself  from 
side  to  side.  His  throat,  his  chest,  his  whole  body 
ached.  A  life  of  stern  denial  !  Oh,  impossible  !  Day 
after  day,  with  the  knowledge  that  she  lived  up  the 
street,  to  stay  in  his  own  place  !  How  could  he 
know  her  there — so  near — and  not  go.  .  .  .  ? 


in 

If  you  had  once  made  up  your  mind  to  do  a  thing, 
there  was  no  turning  back.  Whatever  the  cost, 
you  went  on — pig-headedly.  You  accepted  the 
results,  allowed  nothing  short  of  death  to  turn  you 
back. 

From  Thursday  to  Thursday  Mr.  Corlyon  stayed 
as  far  as  possible  within  the  house.  Though  he  kept 
appointments  already  made,  when  it  was  a  matter 
of  fresh  business,  he  proved  elusive.  He  went  out 
early  and  late,  but  not  in  the  broad  daylight  ;  went 
by  way  of  the  side  streets  and  back  lanes.  Always 
a  quick  walker,  he  went,  now,  like  wind-driven  dust. 
If  people  spoke  to  him,  he  excused  himself  on  the 
score  of  being  late  for  an  appointment.  If  they  came 
to  the  house,  he  let  them  ring  and  ring.  He  would 
be  in  the  parlour,  behind  the  screen  of  the  wire  blind, 
waiting.  When,  finally,  they  gave  up  the  attempt 
to  see  him,  he  would  draw  a  deep  breath.  He  did 
not  want  their  business.  At  odds  with  himself,  how 
could  he  give  these  trivial  matters  his  attention  ? 
Later,  perhaps 

Hitherto,  Thursday  had  stood  out  from  the  other 


210  THE  HAUNTING 

days  of  the  week  as  promising  a  time  of  quiet  enjoy- 
ment. Some  people's  weeks  are  punctuated  by  pay- 
day, others  by  the  rest  and  quiet  of  Sunday  ;  but 
for  years,  Thursday  had  been  the  good  day  of  Gale 
Corlyon's  week.  It  came  this  week,  as  it  had  all 
those  others  _  .  . 

He  could  not  eat ;  if  he  were  to  go  out  he  would 
go  straight  to  the  baby-linen  shop.  For  hours  he 
had  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  haunted  house — no 
longer  seeing  the  wraiths  !  At  last  he  sat  down, 
sat  himself  on  an  uneasy  chair  behind  the  brown  wire 
blind,  held  himself  there  with  hands  clenched  on  his 
knees. 

From  the  road  came  the  clop,  clop  of  hoofs,  the 
roll  of  wheels,  the  voices  of  men.  The  timber  wagons 
were  dragging  lumber  from  the  Norwegian  vessels 
to  the  ship-building  yards.  They  would  go,  the  three 
brown  horses,  the  carter,  the  baulks,  up  French 
Street. 

All  week  he  had  avoided  the  hilly  street.  It  would 
be  impossible  to  go  past  the  shop.  Now  it  seemed 
intolerable  that  others,  the  wagons,  the  men,  should 
be  travelling  along  that  road,  while  he  ... 

But  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  and  he  would  not 
budge.  Under  the  window,  his  strongly-knit  whip- 
cord figure  remained  as  motionless  as  a  statue  ;  and, 
like  the  work  of  a  great  artist,  though  petrified, 
it  was  full  of  life.  This  was  the  first  Thursday. 
To  win  through  the  next  would  be  easier  ;  and  the 
next,  and  the  next,  till  he  was,  like  the  very  old, 
indifferent. 

He  could  look  forward  to  that.  The  agony  of 
living  would  be  at  an  end,  but  not  yet — not  for  a 
Jong,  oh,  an  impossibly  long  time. 


THE   HAUNTING  211 

God — could  he  sit  there,  holding  himself  down  till 
passing  hours  made  it  too  late  for  him  to  go  to  Mor- 
wenna  ?  How  much  longer  ?  The  palms  of  his 
hands  were  unaccountably  sore — he  had  clenched 
them  until  the  nails  cut  the  skin. 

Hours  more  of  it.  .  .  . 

And  Morwenna,  up  the  street,  so — so  damnably 
near.  He  had  only  to  take  down  his  hat,  open  the 
door. 

She  would  be  so  glad.  Waiting,  she  would  have 
grown  anxious.  He  could  see  the  questioning  look, 
the  extreme  relief,  the  joy. 

At  that  very  moment  she  would  be  looking  towards 
him,  wondering.  Ah-h — what  did  it  matter  ?  He 
must  not  think  of  her,  he  must  remember  only  that, 
come  what  might,  he  must  not — he  would  not  go. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


MRS.  LIDDICOAT  withheld  from  a  fairly  contented 
Jenifer  the  shocking  fact  that,  though  she  was  middle- 
aged  and,  by  unamiable  people,  might  be  described 
as  stout,  she  was  the  happiest  woman  in  the  town  of 
Stowe. 

He — her  man — he  was  coming  to  live  in  her  house 
— but  she  did  not  mention  that  to  Jenifer,  over  for 
the  day,  and  full  of  Caer  news  !  He  was  going  to 
leave  that  ramshackle  old  place  of  his  and  live  with 
her,  cosily,  in  the  slim  little,  trim  little  house  on  the 
street.  She  was  no  gossip,  not  she,  but  she  did  like 
to  know  all  that  was  happening  in  the  town.  Quayside 
was  at  the  end  of  the  world.  Nothing  beyond  it 
but  the  sea. 

Besides,  in  a  compact  place  like  hers  you  had  every- 
thing to  hand.  Her  cupboards 

What  would  he  do  with  the  accumulations  of  the 
Brown  House  ?  Sell  them  ?  No,  people  kept  their 
old  rubbish  "  till  death  did  them  part."  In  her  little 
house,  though,  there  would  not  be  room  for  his 
traade — at  least,  only  what  he  belonged  to  have, 
his  clothes,  and  so  on.  Her  eyes  smiled — why, 
she  would  have  to  make  room  for  his  clothes  !  Her 
wardrobe  was  a  licking  great  piece  of  furniture, 
shelves  and  drawers,  and  a  hanging  cupboard.  She 
must  pack  her  things  close  so  that  his  trousers  might 

312 


THE  HAUNTING  '213 

be  laid  out,  full  length,  one  pair  on  the  top  of  the 
next.  He  was  a  peculiarly  clean-looking  man.  That, 
of  course,  was  due  to  his  skin,  that  pale  fine  skin. 
But  his  clothes  became  the  handsome  figure  of  him, 
were  always  neat,  fresh,  well-cut.  During  the  long 
years  of  their  friendship  she  had  set  many  a  stitch 
for  him,  now  she  would  mend  and  make  for  him  as 
a  right.  Love  gave  you  the  right  to  do  things  for 
people  ;  and  the  doing  of  these  things  was  a  pleasure, 
almost  the  greatest  you  could  have.  He  wanted  a 
new  pair  of  thick  stockings,  the  dear  of'n,  and  she 
would  begin  them  at  once.  .  .  . 

There  was  the  shop,  too.  He  had  not  said  what 
day  he  was  coming,  had  not,  perhaps,  made  up  his 
mind.  Her  business  to  get  on  with  the  arrange- 
ments, be  ready  for  him. 

She  knew  it  would  be  soon  ;  and  though  she  had 
been  too  much  excited  to  fall,  at  once,  into  the  sound 
sleep  of  middle-age,  she  was  early  afoot.  Rebecca 
French  had  said,  observing  her  methods,  that  for 
anyone  who  would  take  trouble  there  was  a  fortune 
in  the  little  shop.  Very  well,  then,  she  might  have 
the  business  and  see  what  she  could  do  with  it.  As 
she  lived  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  it  would 
not  be  far  to  move  the  goods. 

Going  blithely  into  the  fresh  morning,  Mrs.  Liddi- 
coat  crossed  the  road.  Rebecca  would  not  be  able 
to  pay  money  down.  l"he  Lord  only  knew  how  the 
woman  lived,  though  there  were  tales,  maids  slipping 
in  after  dark,  and  so  on  ;  but  if  she  paid  so  much 
on  the  takings  every  week  that  would  be  jonik. 
Morwenna  did  not  want  to  drive  a  hard  bargain, 
too  happy  for  that  ;  besides,  best  to  keep  on  the 
right  side  of  Rebecca. 


214  THE  HAUNTING 

The  witch  slept  late.  She  came  from  her  bed 
to  open  the  door,  and  the  black  ringlets  hung  disordered 
on  either  side  of  her  olive-tinted  face.  "  You'm 
early  afoot,"  she  said.  "  Mornin'  isn't  aired  yet." 

"  Wanted  to  see  you  on  business,  my  dear." 

In  the  dusk  of  the  shuttered  room  the  other's  eyes 
glittered  like  new-broken  coal.  "  Should  have  sent 
Jenifer  over  to  me  months  ago." 

Mrs.  Liddicoat  came  in  and  shut  the  door.  "  'Tisn't 
that,  then." 

"  That  is  what  they  do  all  say  to  begin  with." 
Throwing  back  the  shutters,  she  thrust  sticks  into 
the  smoulder  of  turf.  "  Love  and  life,  my  dear  soul, 
love  and  death." 

Mrs.  Liddicoat 's  curiosity  was  aroused.  "  Do 
a-many  come  to  see  you,  Rebecca  ?  " 

"  A  braave  few  !  For  though  there's  some  are  too 
frightened,  there's  more  that  daren't  stay  away." 
She  opened  the  door  into  her  tiny  garden,  and  stooping, 
picked  up  a  toad.  "  My  'andsome,"  she  said,  and 
coming  back  with  it  in  her  hand,  sat  down  on  a  stool 
by  the  hearth.  "  I'm  ready  for  you  now." 

Morwenna  leaned  forward,  smiling.  What  she 
had  to  say  would  be  a  surprise  for  Rebecca.  "  You've 
told  me  time  and  again  you'd  like  a  little  shop  of 
your  own,  and  now's  your  chance." 

The  other  leaned  against  the  wall  for  a  moment, 
her  dark  face  grey.  "  What  do  'ee  mane  ?  " 

Mrs.  Liddicoat  explained,  and  gradually  the 
woman's  face  lost  its  unhealthy  hue.  She  had  shut 
her  eyes,  and,  for  a  moment,  she  kept  them  shut. 
The  suddenness  of  the  offer  had  made  her  feel  as 
if  she  were  in  a  place  that  was  all  open  doors. 

"  Suit  me  all  right  to  have  a  li'l  shop  of  me  own." 


THE  HAUNTING  215 

Her  earnings  were  precarious,  and  she  was  getting 
up  in  years.  Of  late,  she  had  spent  anxious  moments 
wondering  how  to  manage,  seeing  herself  cold  and 
hungry,  and — and  old  !  She  had  no  near  relatives, 
no  friends,  not  a  soul  to  care  what  happened  to  her. 

But  if  she  were  to  take  over  the  baby-linen  shop 
with  its  assured  custom  she  would  be  able  to  earn 
enough,  more  than  enough  ;  moreover,  she  would 
be  a  person  of  importance  in  the  town,  a  shopkeeper. 
She  knew,  at  once,  that  she  would  accept  Morwenna's 
offer,  knew  that  she  was  glad  of  it. 

"  Suit  me  to  have  the  shop,  and  suit  you  to  get 
rids  of  it,  eh  ?"  She  must  not  let  Morwenna  realize 
it  was  a  godsend.  Sitting  up  on  the  small  black 
cricket,  she  considered  the  possibilities  of  her  one 

room.   "  How  about  a  counter  ?  And "  her  glance 

ran  like  a  small  live  thing  about  floor  and  walls, 
"  And  I  shall  want  shelves." 

"  Edgar  Rabey  could  bring  over  mine  and  fix 
them  for  you." 

"  Thought  it  all  out,  haven't  you  ?  "  Morwenna, 
who  had  sat  by  her  at  school,  had  made  a  good  thing  of 
life,  and  how  had  she  deserved  it  more  than  others  ? 
First,  Peter  Liddicoat,  now  Gale  Corlyon  !  "  So 
you've  got'n  at  last  ?  Well,  you  have  waited  long 
enough."  Her  eyes  were  scornful.  "  Whyever 
women  tie  theirselves  up  to  men  is  more'n  I  can 
think." 

"  'Tis  nature." 

'  'Tis  askin'  for  trouble,  addin'  fuel  to  fire.    Never 
had  a  man  myself,  never  wanted  one." 

'  Yet  you  was  a  pretty  maid." 

Rebecca  touched  the  toad,  now  making  an  ungainly 
effort  to  crawl  out  of  her  lap.  "  These  li'l  chaps  be 


216  THE  HAUNTING 

company  enough  for  me,  and  they  don't  cost  I 
nothing  but  love." 

Morwenna  rose  to  go.     "  Love  ?  " 

"  Love  for  this,  or  love  for  that,  'tis  all  the  same." 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  Two  kinds  o'  love,  is  there  ?  This  that  costs  I 
nothing,  and  yourn  as  is  all  tangled  up  with  life  and 
death  ?  " 

"  Don't  'ee,  Becky." 

Rebecca  followed  her  to  the  door.  "  People  want 
for  it  to  be  only  life  ;  but,  more  often,  many  times 
more  often,  'tis  tangled  up  with  death." 


ii 

Old  stock  and  new,  rolls,  bales  and  cardboard 
boxes,  the  contents  of  the  shop — greater  in  quantity 
than  you  would  have  expected — were  carried  over 
by  the  women.  Edgar  Rabey,  as  good  a  little  work- 
chap  as  could  be  found  in  Stowe,  shifted  shelves  and 
counter,  and  as  Morwenna  shut  the  door  on  him  and 
his  last  load  of  wooden  fittings,  she  looked  over  the 
gutted  shop  with  a  feeling  which  was  half  eager 
pleasure  yet  half  regret.  She  had  enjoyed  having 
a  business  and  meeting  the  travellers  for  the  whole- 
sale ;  enjoyed  using  her  mother- wit — getting  cheap 
lines,  job  lots,  and  slightly  flawed  goods,  getting  them 
because  she  knew  how  to  smile  at  and  interest  the  men ! 
Very  pleasant  while  it  lasted,  but  she  was  going 
to  do  what  would  be  still  more  pleasant.  She  did 
not  regret  selling  to  Rebecca.  Oh,  no,  not  really. 

In  the  dirty  littered  room  she  saw  possibilities  of 
a  comfortable  new  order.  She  would  wash  the  walls 
with  colour,  primrose,  she  thought,  as  the  room  was 


THE  HAUNTING  217 

low  and  faced  the  sunset  !  Then  she  would  fetch 
down  the  carpet  Loveday  had  given  her  when  they 
moved  into  the  Ring  o'  Bells.  It  would  look  hand- 
some on  the  good  boarded  floor.  She  was  glad  now 
she  had  had  the  boards  laid.  A  stone  floor  was  cold 
to  the  feet  and,  tender  soul,  his  feet  were  so  often 
cold.  She  was  almost  glad  that  they  were.  He  was 
so  strong,  it  was  heartening  to  think  he  had  a  weak- 
ness— any 

No  fireplace  in  the  room  !  That  could  be  easily 
remedied.  This  time  of  year  mason  didn't  belong 
to  be  busy.  A  fire  as  well  as  a  carpet  for  those  cold 
feet. 

The  desk  would  be  best  between  fireplace  and 
window,  so  that  the  light  could  fall  directly  on  to 
his  papers. 

A  thin  curtain  of  muslin  across  the  lower  panes 
— he  would  have  light,  warmth,  the  place  to  himself 
and,  if  he  wanted  anything  more,  he  had  only  to  ask. 
He  need  not  even  do  that.  Trust  her  to  find  out 
what  he  wanted,  and  give  it  to  him.  Somewhere 
in  the  Bible  it  said — "  to  the  half  of  my  Kingdom." 
The  half,  only  the  half  ?  Some  people  were  poor 
givers  ! 

The  curtain  would  prevent  him  from  being  over- 
looked. Able  to  see  out,  to  mark  who  passed,  he 
would  be  unseen.  The  people  who  came  on  business, 
they  too  must  feel  they  were  not  spied  on,  that  they 
were  alone  with  him. 

She  took  the  top  of  a  packing-case,  nailed  it  over 
the  glass  hatch  between  kitchen  and  shop. 


218  THE  HAUNTING 

in 

The  roses  of  the  flowered  carpet  lay  brightly  on  the 
boards,  a  fire  blazed  behind  the  bars  of  the  new  grate, 
and  fine  muslin  shut  out  the  world. 

"  Look  empty  it  do,"  Mrs.  Liddicoat  thought, 
glancing  about  her,  at  the  pale  primrose  of  the  walls, 
at  the  space  that  had  been  crowded  with  cardboard 
boxes  and  paper  packages,  and  stock.  "  But  if  the 
dear  brings  his  desk — his  desk  and  a  chair  or 
two " 

Thursday — and  in  the  kitchen  a  fowl  was  boiling, 
half  an  hour  more,  and  she  would  take  it  out  of  the 
liquor,  set  it  on  potatoes  in  the  baking  dish,  and  put 
it  in  the  oven.  On  the  table  ready  for  the  sauce 
stood  milk,  crumbled  bread,  a  muslin  bag  with  clove 
and  onion.  As  everything  was  ready,  she  might  go 
up  and  change  her  dress. 

Overstairs  the  room  was  in  some  disorder — not 
time  to  do  everything  !  Once  he  was  come  it  would 
be  different,  but  she  had  been  busy  getting  ready  ; 
and  while  she  was  alone  what  did  it  matter  ? 

By  the  back  window  stood  an  old  chest — open. 
Her  mother's  chest,  and  she  kept  in  it  the  two  pairs 
of  linen  sheets  her  mother  had  left  her,  the  two 
damask  cloths,  the  pair  of  white  blankets,  the  patch- 
work quilt. 

When  the  darling  came,  he  should  have  a  bed  fit 
for  a  king.  Fit  for  ?  He  was  a  king,  and  he  should 
sleep  in  fine  linen,  lie  under  the  bright  silks  and 
satins  and  velvets  of  Grandmother's  quilt. 

She  regretted  that  she  had  not  found  time  to  open 
the  bed-tie,  pick  over  the  lumps.  Very  little  lumps, 
hardly  noticeable — after  all,  the  tie  was  stuffed  with 


THE  HAUNTING  219 

goose  feathers.  She  had  bought  them  from  Sarah 
Martyn,  over  to  Saint  Ryn,  and  Sarah,  whatever 
else  might  be  said  about  her,  was  honest.  She  never 
mixed  duck  and  fowl  feathers  with  the  goose  down  ! 
Still,  in  the  king's  bed  there  must  not  be  the  suspicion 
of  a  lump.  Give  her  one  day  more,  and  she  would 
pick  them  over. 

One  day  more  ?  Put  off  his  coming  yet  another 
day  ?  Oh,  no  !  It  had  been  a  busy  week,  and  she 
had  been  absorbed  in  her  preparations,  yet  every 
hour  had  held  the  hope  that  he  might  come,  that  she 
might  glance  up  from  her  work  to  see  him  looking 
at  her.  Those  whimsical  eyes  !  They  made  fun  of 
her  scrubbings  and  scourings.  She  was  to  do  as  she 
liked,  but  he  saw  no  need  for  stirring  up  of  dust 
and  shifting  of  furniture.  With  half  the  disturbance 
he  would  have  been  quite  as  comfortable.  Dearie 
dear,  the  foolishness,  the  enchanting  foolishness  of 
men  ! 

Mrs.  Liddicoat  lifted  from  a  peg  in  her  hanging 
cupboard  a  long  linen  bag.  Within,  uncreased,  yet 
preserved  from  moth  and  dust,  hung  the  purple 
gown.  The  ruches  at  sleeve  and  throat  were  fresh. 
She  would  add  the  French  lace  collar,  the  gold 
chain  .  .  . 

She  wore  her  hair  loosened  a  little  at  the  sides 
and  fastened  in  a  seemly  knot  at  the  back.  So  many 
women  had  curls,  curls  in  a  bunch,  or  short  ringlets 
hanging  from  a  centre  parting,  but  she  must  have 
neatness.  If  you  were  the  sort  for  curls,  that  was 
all  right  ;  but  if  a  woman  like  herself  wore  them  it 
would  look  foolish.  And  he — he  had  never  said  what 
he  liked.  A  smooth  head,  or  waves,  or  ringlets,  she 
did  not  know.  Hilde  Fone  had  had  a  single  fat  curl 


220  THE  HAUNTING 

that  she  tossed  over  her  shoulder  ;  Emmie  Rosevear 
had  had  an  unruly  mop,  no  less.  Thinking  over  the 
maids  that  Morwenna  had  seen  him  with,  she  was 
unable  to  come  to  a  conclusion.  All  sorts  !  Perhaps 
that  was  it.  He  liked  this,  and  that,  and  the  other, 
but  she  need  not  worry  for,  if  he  had  never  spoken  of 
her  hair,  when  it  came  to  marriage,  it  was  she  whom 
he  had  chosen. 

From  a  box  where  it  lay  folded  in"  tissue  paper 
she  took  the  lace  collar.  It  had  come  to  the  town  on 
a  woman  fleeing  from  religious  persecution,  and  had 
been  handed  down  from  mother  to  daughter,  a  bit 
of  decency.  Rebecca  French  envied  her  the  collar, 
said  she  had  an  equal  right  to  it,  seeing  the  woman 
it  came  from  had  been  her  great -granny  too.  True, 
they  were  some  sort  of  cousin,  she  and  Becky,  but 
then,  most  people  were  if  they  only  knew.  Morwenna 
had  the  collar  because  her  side  the  family  had  been 
saving,  while  Becky's  father — a  proper  dragon  of  a 
fellow  !  Why,  they  said  'twas  he  changed  the  white 
stones  on  the  edge  of  the  cliffs  so  that  Exciseman 
Tonkin  fell  over  in  the  dark  and  broke  his  neck. 
It  was  not  brought  home  to  Jacob  French,  but  in  the 
whole  place  no  such  a  daredevil  as  he. 

The  collar  was  of  fine  lace.  When  her  mother 
gave  it  her,  it  had  been  yellow  with  age,  but  she  had 
washed  and  bleached  and  mended  it.  It  looked  well 
on  the  bright  purple  of  her  gown,  and  Gale  had  said 
he  "  loved  "  her  in  it. 

If  only  the  neck  about  which  it  lay  had  been  firm 
of  skin,  firm  as  it  was  full.  She  looked  at  her  reflec- 
tion. Her  throat  was  white,  but  the  skin  under  the 
chin  was  baggy.  Once,  and  not  long  ago,  either,  she 
had  had  the  fairest  neck — or  so  they  said — in  Stowe. 


THE   HAUNTING  221 

She  cupped  her  face  in  her  hand  and,  stooping  to 
the  mirror,  considered  the  result.  Her  fingers, 
gathering  in  the  loosened  skin,  revealed  a  soft  round 
chin,  the  chin  that  goes  with  an  eager  and  a  vital 
spirit ;  revealed,  too,  the  white  column  of  a  neck 
once  beautiful,  and  still  fair. 

Morwenna  had  always  been  aware  of  her  good 
points,  had  thought  her  duty  done  when  she  saw 
them  again  in  her  children.  Not  till  the  hope  of  Gale 
Corlyon's  love  bloomed  in  her  heart  had  she  regarded 
her  looks  from  a  personal  point  of  view.  What  had 
she  to  give  ?  Not  beauty  .  .  . 

She  wished^ she  were  not  so  ignorant  of  rouge  pots 
and  the  like  ;  that  young  hussy,  Jenifer,  knew  more 
of  such  matters  than  she.  Yet  it  was  she  to  whom 
the  knowledge  might  have  been  useful. 

If  only  she  could  have  ironed  the  creases  from  her 
face  as  she  ironed  the  clothes  when  she  had  made 
them  water-sweet  !  Not  many  wrinkles,  but  more 
than  enough.  Thank  goodness,  her  skin  was  still 
soft,  soft  as  silk. 

If  she  had  done  differently  during  the  careless  years, 
would  she  now  have  had  a  firm  smooth  skin,  and  no 
grey  in  her  hair  ?  A  good  head  of  hair,  but  for  colour 
it  was  like  a  sea-mist.  It  had  been  yellow  as  a  daffy. 
It  had  darkened  to  brown,  it  had  dimmed  to  this 
cloudy  grey. 

A  slack  skin,  and  wrinkles,  and  grey  hair  !  Yet 
he,  who  might  have  had  the  pick  of  the  parish,  he 
wanted  her. 

She  was  not  worthy,  not  in  her  body,  only  in  her 
love. 


222  THE   HAUNTING 

IV 

The  fowl  was  roasted  to  a  turn,  the  sauce  made, 
the  jam  bobbin  ready,  and  yet  the  step  that  would 
have  been  so  welcome  had  not  swung  up  the  lamp-lit 
street,  and  over  the  drexel. 

Mrs.  Liddicoat  stacked  plates  and  dishes  in  the 
warm  oven  and,  closing  behind  her  the  kitchen  door, 
shutting  in  lamp  and  firelight,  went  through  the  outer 
room  to  the  street.  She  had  intended  to  give  Mr. 
Corlyon  a  surprise,  to  let  him  in,  and  then,  fetching 
a  candle,  show  him  what  had  kept  her  busy.  He  would 
be  delighted  with  the  freshly-limed  walls  and  the 
gay  carpet.  Liked  bright  colours  he  did,  and  jollity, 
and  things  of  good  repute.  Well,  he  should  have 
all  the  brightness  she  could  bring  into  his  life — a 
man  who  spent  all  his  spare  time  doing  kindnesses 
for  folk !  A  Bible  phrase  came  into  her  head : 
"  He  saved  others,  himself  he  cannot  save."  Yes, 
indeed,  he  saved  others,  oh,  in  lots  of  ways,  but  he 
was  going  to  be  happy,  he  himself.  She  would  see 
to  it  that  he  was. 

She  stood  at  the  door,  looking  into  deepening  night. 
The  Brown  House  was  in  darkness.  That  might  mean 
either  that  he  was  just  setting  out  or  that  he  had 
gone  into  the  town  on  business,  was  coming  on  to  her 
from  some  unpaid  errand. 

"  That  you,  Mrs.  Liddicoat  ?  " 

A  voice  from  across  the  street.  Morwenna  had 
thought  she  was  sufficiently  in  the  shadow  not  to 
be  seen.  She  tuned  her  throat  to  an  amiable  greeting. 
"  Making  your  fortune,  Rebecca  ?  " 

The  light  of  the  little  low  room,  now  transformed 
with  goods,  outlined  Rebecca's  spare  figure.  She 


THE  HAUNTING  223 

was  stroking  a  small,  dark  something  she  held  in  her 
hand  and  her  sharp  glances  raked  the  street.  "  The 
business  has  made  one  bit  of  difference  to  me,"  she 
said.  "  I  used  to  be  sorry  for  the  maidens  that  got 
theirselves  nabbed,  but  now  'tis  the  artful  ones  I 
'aven't  got  no  patience  with." 

As  she  spoke  a  woman,  carrying  a  covered  basket, 
stepped  out  of  the  Farmer's  Arms.  She  crossed  the 
road,  coming  down  on  Mrs.  Liddicoat's  side,  but  she 
need  not  have  hoped  to  escape  recognition.  Rebecca 
looked  from  the  woman  to  her  basket — "  Good 
evenin',  Mrs.  Maddicott.  A  fine  bakin'  day,  wind's  in 
the  right  direction." 

Though  Dusha  Maddicott  returned  the  greeting  she 
did  not  stop  ;  and  Rebecca's  darkling  glance  followed 
her  down  the  street. 

"  She'm  going  to  they  Spargos,  that's  where  she's 
going,"  she  cried,  as  Mrs.  Maddicott  turned  east 
across  the  head  of  the  quay.  "  She's  always  bakin' 
pasties  and  'obbins  for  they." 

Morwenna  heard  without  heeding.  The  little 
jealousies  of  the  street,  what  did  they  matter  ?  What 
did  anything  matter  but  that  time  was  passing  and 
there  was  no  sign  of  Gale  ? 

A  hot  supper  did  not  improve  by  keeping.  Unwil- 
lingly she  went  back  to  the  kitchen.  He  would  not 
come  any  the  quicker  because  she  idled  away  her  time. 
At  her  waist,  fastened  to  a  wad  of  straw,  was  the 
stocking  she  had  begun,  and  when  she  had  slaked  the 
fire  with  fine  coal  and  sand,  she  went  on  with  the  three 
plain,  three  purl.  Jenifer's  stockings,'  her  own,  and 
now  Gale's.  Hers  and  Jenifer's  as  a  matter  of  course, 
but  every  stitch  she  put  on  to  the  needles  for  him  gave 
her  pleasure.  Stockings  for  those  narrow  feet,  feet 


224  THE   HAUNTING 

like  the  quality  had  ;    but,  then,  he  was  quality — at 
least  his  mother  had  been  ! 

Morwenna,  knitting  and  yet  listening,  was  disturbed 
by  a  clash  of  voices.  Trouble  had  broken  out  in  the 
street  and  now  she  would  not  be  able  to  hear  his  step. 
An  excuse  to  go  back  to  the  door  !  Little  she  cared 
for  the  women's  quarrels.  Some  trifle  or  other.  Why 
it  was  Mrs.  Maddicott — of  all  people,  Mrs.  Maddicott  ! 
Looking  so  untidy,  too.  Where  was  her  bonnet  ? 
Morwenna  had  never  seen  her  on  the  street  without  it, 
but  now  she  stood  in  Rebecca's  doorway,  with  her 
fire -red  hair  a  rumpled  mass. 

"  What  is  it  ?  What  is7  the  matter  ?  "  Up  and 
down  the  street  women  were  at  their  doors, 
and  Morwenna  turned  to  a  neighbour  for  infor- 
mation. 

*'  She  do  think  she  been  ill-wished  and  that  Rebecca 
done  it.  She  be  tellin'  her  of  it." 

The  procedure  was  time  honoured.  Only  by  con- 
fronting the  ill-wisher  could  you  get  her  to  remove  the 
spell. 

"  When  I  got  in,"  cried  Mrs.  Maddicott  furiously. 
"  I  was  fair  boilin'  with  lice." 

Rebecca,  a  small  dark  figure  on  the  threshold  of 
her  house,  stared  coldly.  "  Comes  of  going  into 
Spargo's  dirty  place." 

The  defence  being  reasonable  one  or  two  of  the  on- 
lookers smiled,  but  not  Mrs.  Maddicott.  "  'Tis  not 
the  Spargos  and  don't  you  miscall  them,  or  you'll  have 
they  to  reckon  with.  'Tis  you — and  I  know  why  you 
done  it  !  You  jaloused  I  was  taking  a  loaf  to  the  old 
man  and  you  thought  I  belonged  to  give  you  one. 
You,  with  your  new  shop  !  Why  should  I  bake  for 
you  ?  And  now  I'm  lousy  as  a  pig  ;  but  if  you  don't 


THE   HAUNTING  225 

take  the  charm  off  me,  I'll—      "  she  lifted  her  hand 
threateningly,  "  I'll  cork  you  up." 

The  women  glanced  at  each  other.  It  was  the  ap- 
proved method  of  releasing  a  person  who  had  been 
witched.  A  brave  woman,  Mrs.  Maddicott,  not  many 
of  them  would  have  dared  threaten  the  witch. 

"  You  can't,"  was  all  Rebecca  said,  but  her  eyes  were 
venomous  and  Mrs.  Liddicoat,  shuddery  cold  inside  the 
purple  dress,  was  thankful  she  had  always  been  on 
good  terms  with  the  possessor  of  those  eyes.  No 
doubt  about  it,  Rebecca  could  ill-wish  you  if  she  had  a 
mind  to. 

"  And  why  can't  I  then  ?  " 

"  You  don't  know  the  words." 

"  Don't  I  then  ?  Betsey  Rosevear  told  me  all 
about  it." 

Corking  up  was  no  light  matter  and  Rebecca, 
although  she  had  never  experienced  it,  had  heard  tales. 
The  menace  in  her  eyes  turned  to  an  aloof  dignity. 

"  You  think  you'm  lousy,"  she  said,  "  but  you're 
mistook.  Go  home  now,  and  as  your  foot  cross  the 
drexel  you'll  find  you  are  clean  as  ever." 

She  stepped  back  shutting  her  door  jn  the  other's 
face.  Young  Mrs.  Spargo  was  a  higgler  and  chicken 
are  lousy  ;  but  chicken-lice  cannot  live  on  a  human 
being.  Her  prophecy  would  come  true — at  any  rate 
before  morning. 

Meanwhile  the  tale  that  she,  Rebecca  French,  had 
ill -wished  Mrs.  Maddicott  would  travel  abroad,  bring- 
ing her  more  and  more  after-dark  visitors,  people  who 
believed  she  could  help  as  well  as  harm,  people  who 
were  in  trouble  of  one  sort  and  another. 

The  women  faded  into  the  obscurity  of  doorway  and 
passage,  and  Morwenna  found  herself  alone  on  the 
p 


226  THE   HAUNTING 

cobbles  of  the  sidewalk.  A  wind  out  of  the  north, 
cold  and  with  a  suggestion  of  frost,  was  sweeping  up 
from  the  harbour.  Looking  through  the  blackness, 
she  shivered  a  little,  recalled  by  the  passing  of  the 
teacup  storm  to  a  dreary  fact.  He  was  not  come. 


When  Mrs.  Liddicoat  sank  into  her  down  bed  that 
night,  she  felt  as  if  she  were  sinking  through  it  into 
nothingness.  In  actual  fact,  she  soon  came  to  the 
"  hard  country  "  of  her  mattress,  but  her  heart  con- 
tinued to  sink  until  it  was  floating  in  a  night  that  was 
black  and  cold  and  still. 

When  he  had  parted  from  her,  a  week  ago,  it  had 
been  with  love  on  his  lips.  The  fact  that  he  had  not 
been  near  her  since — it  might  mean  ...  A  lei- 
surely place,  Stowe,  no  one  so  busy  but  he  could 
spare  time  for  a  craik  ;  and  he  would  want  to  see  her, 
just  as  she  wanted  to  see  him.  Not  a  morning  but 
when  she  woke  she  had  thought,  "I  shall  see  him  before 
night,"  and  night  had  found  her  disappointed  but  not 
discouraged.  "  I  shall  see  him  to-morrow —  "  and 
always  she  had  known,  for  sure,  that  Thursday  would 
bring  him. 

Yet  he  had  not  been  in.  Not  once  had  he  looked 
over  the  half-door.  And  now,  even  Thursday  was  past 
and  he  had  not  come.  She  lay  in  the  dark,  crying. 

VI  \ 

A  clear,  bright  day  called  her  from  shallow  dream- 
troubled  sleep,  and  called  her  early. 

It  might  not  have  been  the  day  that  called  her  ; 
but  her  uncertainty,  her  fear.  From  the  rounded 


THE  HAUNTING  227 

window  of  her  bedroom,  she  could  see  the  Brown 
House,  its  front  caressed  by  the  sun,  its  panes  shining 
in  the  dawn  light.  Antiks  Hellyar  "  did  "  for  Mr. 
Corlyon  and  Morwenna  would  watch  her  go  in.  It 
might  be  he  was  ill. 

Antiks  would  go  down  the  lane  at  the  side,  over  the 
stepping-stones  in  the  wall,  and  in  at  the  back-door. 

Mrs.  Liddicoat,  putting  on  her  blue  woollen  dressing- 
gown,  sat  down  by  the  window.  On  those  opposite, 
the  sun  glittered  ;  at  the  back  of  them,  Gudda  Hill 
was  yellow  with  light  and  also  with  kissing  flowers — 
bushes  and  bushes  of  them. 

The  day  brightened  and  warmed,  but  no  Antiks. 
Smoke  rose  from  the  kitchen  chimney — Morwenna 
knew  those  chimneys  better  than  her  own — a  window 
was  raised. 

It  was  Pascoe's  window  and  she  had  long  sight. 
Though  Gale  was  in  shadow,  for  the  room  looking 
south  was  a  pit  of  darkness,  something  in  her  knew 
that  he  had  opened  it,  that  he  was  there  looking  out, 
looking  towards  her.  She  was  as  certain  as  if  she 
could  see  into  his  mind  that  he  was  thinking  of  her  ; 
and  her  body  tingled  and  glowed.  She  lost  the  sense 
of  personal  being,  was  no  longer  Morwenna  Liddicoat 
but  a  something  that  throbbed  towards  him,  that  was 
part  of  his  life. 

He  stood  for  some  time  at  the  window  and  absorbed, 
utterly  happy,  she  waited.  He  was  alive,  he  was  well, 
he  was  thinking  of  her — what  more  did  she  want  ? 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  he  would  let  her  know  why, 
the  previous  evening,  he  had  failed  to  come.  She 
would  be  at  work  in  the  house  and,  some  blessed 
moment,  would  lift  her  eyes  to  see  the  face  and  figure 
always  in  her  thoughts.  Or  she  would  be  in  the 


228  THE   HAUNTING 

garden  and  would  hear  a  voice,  his  voice  ;  would  hear 
it  so  gladly  that  for  a  second  she  would  turn  faint. 
Before  she  could  run  in  she  would  have  to  lay  her  hand 
on  her  heart,  pull  herself  together. 

He  did  not  like  a  fuss,  so  as  she  ran,  she  would  have 
to  steady  herself,  conceal  her  too  great  joy.  When 
she  reached  him  she  would  have  to  smile  as  if  he  had 
.not  been  ages  absent,  give  him  a  good  everyday  wel- 
come !  "  Well,  you  are  come  then  ?  Glad  to  see  you, 
always  glad.  Come  on  into  the  kitchen  and  set  down." 


CHAPTER  XX 


THE  hours  of  Friday  dragged  a  painful  course.  Mrs. 
Liddicoat  could  not  settle  to  any  work.  The  lumps 
in  the  feather-tie  ?  What  ?  Run  down  to  him  when 
he  came  with  her  hair  all  fluffs  ?  No — the  bed  could 
wait.  Dig  in  the  manure  her  son-in-law  had  brought 
her  from  Caer  when  he  was  fetching  coal  ?  She  was 
not  in  the  mood  for  it,  not  in  the  mood  for  any  work 
that  took  her  out  of  the  primrose  room  or  away  from 
the  rounded  window  overstairs.  Why  did  not  Gale 
come  ?  He  had  stood  in  Pascoe's  room,  looking  up 
the  street,  yet  the  slow  minutes  fell  away  and  there 
was  neither  sign  nor  sight  of  him.  )Vhat  had  hap- 
pened, what  was  the  matter  ?  The  strain  kept  her 
moving  restlessly  about.  She  began  a  job  but  left 
it  half  finished.  She  went  from  one  room  to  the 
other  ;  did  a  little  washing,  a  little  ironing,  but  even- 
tually pushed  trough  and  iron  impatiently  aside.  The 
work  was  of  no  importance,  nothing  was,  nothing  but 
the  fact  that  he  did  not  come.  Night  closing  down 
she  could  only  think  miserably  that  perhaps  to- 
morrow .  .  . 

If  he  did  not  come  to-morrow  she  would  do  some- 
thing desperate  !  Uncertainty  was  wearing,  was 
more  than  wearing.  If  she  knew  what  was  the  matter 
she  would  be  able  somehow  to  adapt  herself.  Nothing 
was  more  difficult  to  endure  than  this  not  knowing 

339 


230  THE  HAUNTING 

where  you  were  and  what  was  going  to  happen.  No, 
no,  it  was  not  that.  She  was  unhappy  because  he 
did  not  come.  If  he  stood  before  her  in  the  flesh,  she 
would  be  able  to  endure  anything. 

On  Saturday  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  him.  He  had 
come  out  of  his  house  and  was  walking  swiftly — so 
swiftly  he  almost  seemed  to  run — down  his  garden. 
Her  heart  fluttered  with  excitement,  with  hope,  but 
in  a  moment  he  had  crossed  the  road  and  was  out  of 
sight.  Evidently  he  was  gone  out  on  business,  and 
was  late.  When  he  came  home,  though,  he  would  not 
be  in  such  a  hurry.  She  might  expect  to  see  him  in 
an  hour  or  two.  She  sat  down  behind  the  muslin 
curtain,  waited  an  hour,  another,  but — he  did  not 
come. 

Sunday,  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday 

At  night  her  heart  fell  into  the  void  of  an  accepted 
disappointment.  All  day  long  she  had  hoped,  every 
hour,  every  minute,  but  the  stroke  of  ten  meant 
that  she  must  hope  no  more.  He  had  not  come. 
That  day  he  would  not  come. 

She  had  to  live  through  the  hours  of  blackness 
before  she  might  begin  again — hours,  minutes,  every 
second  of  the  day. 

If  only  she  understood.  Had  she  done  anything 
he  did  not  like,  was  he  annoyed,  angry  with  her  ? 
She  remembered  the  figure  at  the  window.  He  had 
stood  there  for  a  long  time,  motionless,  looking  to- 
wards her,  thinking  of  her.  She  could  not  doubt  that 
he  had  been  thinking  of  her.  Well,  then,  he  could 
not  be  angry.  .  .  . 

Thursday  morning  !  A  day  of  wind  and  racing 
cloud  and  sharp  scurries  of  rain.  She  went  across 
to  the  butcher's  and  bought  a  sweetbread. 


THE  HAUNTING  231 

At  any  rate  she  would  pretend  to  herself  that  he 
was  coming.  As  she  walked  through  the  primrose 
room,  the  walls  echoed  her  step,  the  grate  stared 
through  a  menace  of  black  bars.  Empty.  .  .  . 

Her  plans,  her  preparations — she  put  the  sweet- 
bread on  the  kitchen  table,  leaned  her  face  on  her 
arms  and  sat  motionless.  If  she  only  knew  why 

For  what  seemed  to  her  a  moment  but  was  in  reality 
a  long  time,  she  sat  by  the  table,  seeking  the  reason. 
He  could  not  cast  her  off  without  a  word.  Suddenly, 
too.  Something  must  have  happened,  something  of 
which  she  was  in  ignorance.  Her  mind  traversed 
straight  roads  and  winding  but  to  no  purpose.  She 
had  no  clue,  was  in  a  maze  ;  but  it  was  unbearable 
this  going  round  and  round,  this  uncertainty.  Hours, 
days  and  the  ache  of  longing,  why,  oh  why  ?  He  who 
was  kind  to  the  whole  of  Stowe,  to  whom  those  in 
trouble  turned  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  could  not  be 
unkind  to  her.  It  was  not  possible.  His  caresses 
burned  on  her  lips,  on  more  than  her  lips.  He  could 
not  have  kissed  her — like  that — if  he  had  not  loved 
her.  And  yet,  if  he  had  in  his  breast  the  ache  of 
longing  that  was  in  hers,  he  could  not— simply  could 
not — have  stayed  away. 

He  had  been  able  to  stay  away,  therefore  he  could 
not  love  her  as  much  as  she  him. 

Perhaps  men  did  not  love  like  women.  How  was 
she  with  her  one  experience  and  that  so  commonplace, 
how  was  she  to  know  ? 

Gathering  up  her  parcels,  she  tried  to  find  in  work  an 
antidote  to  pain. 


232  THE   HAUNTING 

ii 

To  Morwenna,  sitting  hands  folded,  in  her  kitchen 
while  the  hours  of  Thursday  evening  dropped  slowly 
away,  those  fruitless  moments  were  the  last  turn  of 
the  screw.  When  she  could  bear  the  tightening  no 
longer  she  went  to  her  room,  and  threw  herself,  face 
down,  on  the  bed.  She  lay  there  wrestling  with  the 
longing  to  go,  to  go  at  once  and  ask  her  lover  why  he 
was  torturing  her. 

Absence,  silence.  .  .  . 

All  evening  she  had  hardly  dared  to  breathe.  The 
clock  in  the  church  tower  had  cried  the  hours,  and  her 
spirit  crossing  the  "  land  between  "  had  pleaded  for 
her  with  that  other  spirit.  He  had  proved  inexorable. 
All  the  wiles  she  knew  and  yet  she  could  not  prevail  ! 

How  had  she  contrived  to  vex  him  ?  Never  a 
cross  word  between  them.  She  admired  him  as  a  man, 
and  he  had  seemed  to  admire  her  management  of  her 
cottage  property,  of  her  shop,  of  her  little  home.  If 
he  had  wanted  her  to  be  different  in  any  way,  yes, 
any  way  at  all,  she  would  have  been  willing.  She 
would  have  felt  that  she  was  doing  it  for  him.  She 
wanted  to  fill  her  life  with  the  doing  of  things  for  him, 
then  every  moment  would  be  a  joy.  Already  she  had 
given  up  the  shop.  .  .  . 

He  knew  how  utterly  she  was  his,  so  it  was  not  that. 
Well,  then,  what  could  it  be  ? 

She  lay,  in  the  bravery  of  her  purple  gown,  her  face 
against  the  pillow.  What  matter  the  reason  ?  He 
was  not  come  and  she  could  not,  oh,  she  could  not  bear 
it. 

The  night  was  very  still.  She  was  lapped  in  a  still- 
ness of  misery,  in  darkness  and  bewilderment ;  and 


THE   HAUNTING  233 

under  it  all  was  the  old  craving.  If  she  could  only 
see  him,  ask  .  .  .  Well,  and  why  not  ?  What  was 
to  prevent  her  going  to  him  ?  She  had  gone  in  spirit, 
why  should  she  not  go  in  the  flesh.  It  would  be  more 
satisfactory  and,  surely,  he  wouldn't  mind. 

Before  she  fell  asleep,  she  had  decided  to  see  him, 
question  him.  What  he  told  her  would  be  the  truth. 
On  this  resolve  she  slept  and  slept  well ;  and  it  helped 
her  through  the  following  day.  Fixed  in  her  decision 
she  set  to  work  on  jobs  that  she  had  left  half -finished. 
Now  that  she  knew  what  she  would  do,  she  could 
possess  her  soul  in  patience. 


in 

For  days  a  swell  with  following  winds,  had  ground 
the  coast.  The  fishermen  of  Stowe,  watching  askance, 
had  made  ready  for  flooded  kitchens  and  cellars  ;  but, 
during  the  night  the  sea  had  fallen  silent.  When 
Morwenna  Liddicoat  came  out  of  crooked,  narrow 
French  Street,  into  the  space  and  light  of  the 
harbour  she  looked  on  water  that  was  summer-blue 
and  still. 

The  latch  of  the  little  iron  gate  clicked  under  her 
hand  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  heavily.  How 
would  he  take  her  coming  to  him  in  this  way  ?  Would 
he  be  annoyed  or  would  he  look  up  from  whatever 
he  was  doing  with  a  surprise  that  brightened,  that 
became  joy  ?  She  only  knew  that  she  was  afraid, 
yes,  horribly. 

Smoke  was  rising  from  the  kitchen  chimney,  but 
not  from  that  of  the  parlour.  She  had  heard  that 
Antiks  Hellyar  was  no  longer  "  doing  "  for  Mr.  Cor- 
lyon,  and  at  first  she  had  been  pleased.  It  looked  as 


234  THE  HAUNTING 

if  he,  too,  were  beginning  his  preparations.  Then, 
why  .  .  .  what  was  the  hitch  ? 

Would  he  be  in  ?  Oh,  yes,  she  knew  he  was.  She 
had  the  feeling  in  her  bones,  that  he  was  not  only  in 
but  near.  Strange,  but  she  could  almost  see  him. 

If  he  had  a  fire  in  the  kitchen,  he  would  be  sitting 
there.  Being  such  a  chilly  mortal  he  would  not  sit 
in  the  cold  parlour,  yet  she  felt  as  if  he  were  nearer 
than  the  kitchen.  She  almost,  she  quite  saw  him, 
saw  him  with  the  eyes  of  her  mind.  Ah,  and  she  knew 
for  certain  sure  that  in  a  moment  more  she  would  see 
him,  himself. 

Her  fear  had  changed  to  eagerness,  a  wave  of  sensa- 
tion tingled  through  her  body.  So  near  !  Stepping 
off  the  gravel  on  to  the  strip  of  lawn,  she  looked  over 
the  wire  blind  of  the  window,  .  .  . 

Met  his  eyes. 

For  a  moment  she  was  too  tumultuously  glad  to 
realize  anything  but  that  she  was  seeing  him.  She 
stood,  her  heart  in  the  looks  she  gave  him  ;  but  the 
face  turned  to  her,  the  face  looking  out  of  the  gloomy 
room,  was  white  and  hard.  It  did  not  reflect  either 
her  gladness  or  her  surprise.  He  must,  she  thought, 
have,  watched  her  walk  up  the  path  ;  must  have 
understood.  She  looked  into  his  eyes,  the  eyes  that 
had  softened  to  her  such  a  little  while  ago,  but  they 
were  a  flint  grey.  No  warmth,  no  gold  in  them  and 
the  set  of  his  jaw,  grim.  She  had  seen  a  snapped-to 
rabbit-trap.  The  iron  teeth — Gale's  jaw — 

Her  knees  shook  and  for  a  moment  she  wished  she 
had  left  ill  alone,  that  she  had  not  come.  Then  she 
rallied.  He  did  not  belong  to  look  at  her  like  that. 
The  tumult  of  her  spirit,  its  love,  its  longing,  stilled. 
She  was  afraid,  but  not  of  Gale.  His  absence  had 


THE  HAUNTING  235 

been  grievous,  but  what  he  might  do  now  might  be 
worse,  for  he  might  wound  love  itself.  She  realized 
suddenly  that  she  did  not  matter,  but  love — yes. 

She  knew  now  that  she  was  sorry  she  had  come. 
Nevertheless  she  was  there  and  must  take  what  he 
gave.  She  bent  towards  the  window  and  in  a  voice 
she  tried  to  keep  steady,  said  :  "  'Tis  the  prettiest 
day  we've  had  for  a  long  time.  Won't  you  come  out 
for  a  walk,  dear  life  ?  " 

Usually  he  spoke  slowly,  as  if  considering  his  words, 
but  to-day  he  had  them  ready.  "  I  can't  come." 

The  unfamiliar  readiness  took  her  aback.  Not 
only  that  but  a  quality  in  the  voice.  Never  had 
she  heard  tones  so  stone-cold,  so  hard.  "Why  can't 
you  ?  " 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

The  voice  might  have  come  from  between  the  lips 
of  a  statue.  The  words  were  like  lumps  of  marble, 
dropping,  dropping,  on  to  Morwenna's  heart  and  each 
stone,  harsh  and  jagged,  cut  into  the  soft  flesh. 
"  Aren't  you  comin'  any  more  ?  " 

"  No." 

Although  he  saw  the  blood  drain  from  her  face,  his 
remained  set  and  cold.  To-day  she  was  suffering, 
yesterday  it  had  been  he. 

;c  What  have  I  done  ?  "  The  glass  of  the  window 
was  between  them — but  he  heard.  Her  fear,  her 
grief — they  were,  in  a  way,  comforting.  He  had  felt, 
too,  and  at  bottom  all  feeling  is  the  same. 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  have  done  anything." 

"  Then  can't  I— can't  I  make  it  right  ?  " 

"  No." 

She  sought  desperately,  in  crazy  haste,  for  an  argu- 
ment, something  that  would  wipe  that  look  off  his 


236  THE  HAUNTING 

face.  His  voice  was  not  only  hard,  it  was  final.  The 
end  ?  Oh,  no,  not  that,  anything  but  that. 

"  You  don't He  must  deny  it,  there  was  a 

mistake  somewhere,  and  she  must  manage  to  break 
through,  get  past  this  stranger,  get  at  the  real  Gale. 
"  You  don't  want  me  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer.  The  truth  lay  behind  his 
grimly-set  lips.  If  he  opened  them  it  might  slip  out. 
Want  her  ?  She  was  sanctuary,  salvation  .  .  .  want 
her? 

Yet  even  this  was  better  than  sitting  alone,  thinking. 
Here  was  a  fight  and  it  was  a  relief  to  hit  out,  to  hurt 
as  he  had  been  hurt  ;  yes,  and  to  know  that  his  un- 
happiness  was  shared. 

She  waited,  searching  his  face  for  a  kindness  she  felt 
must  be  there.  Ten  years  of  friendship,  a  month  of 
loving,  surely  they  had  bred  in  him  some  sort  of 
affection  for  her  ?  But  no,  not  a  hint  of  it.  The  set 
face,  the  eyes  ! 

Hard  as  grey  ice,  those  eyes. 

They  told  her  what  she  had  known  all  along.  It 
had  not  been  possible  that  a  man  as  splendid  as  he, 
should  love — her. 

"Is  it  because  I  am —  "  her  vanity  boggled  over 
'old,'  "because  I  am  not  young?" 

A  flicker  in  the  hard  eyes.  She  was  a  poor  thing 
to  fight,  laid  herself  open.  You  had  only  to  strike  ! 
If  she  had  been  a  better  fighter  it  would  have  been 
easier  to  strike,  but  he  must  go  on.  He  had  killed 
Pascoe,  now  he  must  kill — one  thing  grew  out  of 
another — he  must  kill  this. 

He  bent  his  head.  He  could  not  lie  with  his  lips, 
but — in  love  and  war  .  .  . 

Seeing,  she  grew  yet  more  grey  and  he  thought  for 


THE   HAUNTING  237 

an  angry  moment  that  she  was  going  to  faint.  "  Be- 
cause I  am  old  ?  "  she  cried,  no  longer  boggling  over 
the  word.  What  did  vanity  matter,  now  ?  "  Oh, 
I  knew  it,  I  knew  it." 

The  death-blow  !  No  woman  could  stand  that  ! 
He  had  a  feeling  of  release.  Those  clinging  arms,  they 
were  gone,  and  he  was  free. 

If  she  would  only  go. 

His  eyes  stared  unseeingly.  He  was  near,  so  very 
near  the  end  of  endurance.  That  humble  acceptance 
by  her  of  his  knock-out  blow  as  natural,  expected, 
beat  on  his  self-control.  If  she  did  not  hurry  away 
he  might  ...  he  would  .  .  . 

She  must  go  and  quickly,  or  he  would  tell  her  .  .  . 
tell  her  the  truth. 

Why  did  she  not  go  ?  He  could  not  stand  it,  not 
a  moment  longer.  Oh  .  .  . 

She  was  looking  at  him,  as  the  damned  look  on  the 
face  of  God.  Cast  out  of  heaven  she  might  not  see 
him  again.  At  last — ah,  yes,  at  last  she  was  turning 
away. 

He  heard  her  feet  on  the  crisp  gravel  of  the  path. 
She  was  gone. 

He  sat  like  a  man  who  has  been  changed  from  liv- 
ing flesh  to  stone.  The  receding  footsteps  dragged. 
Morwenna  went  heavily  as  if  she  were  indeed  old. 

The  gate  at  the  end  of  the  path  shut  between  them 
with  the  fall  of  iron  latch  into  iron  socket. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

MORWENNA 


WHEN  it  came  to  bread-baking,  meat -roasting,  Mr. 
Corlyon  found  himself  at  a  loss.  Simple  things  pre- 
sented no  difficulties,  and  he  had  found  food  in  the 
larder.  He  could  make  coffee,  cook  eggs  and  had  a 
ham  in  cut.  Amazing  though,  how  quickly,  even  if 
he  only  used  one  plate  at  a  meal,  the  cloam  accumu- 
lated in  the  dish-pan.  Also  very  surprising  in  what 
a  short  time  the  cupboard  grew  bare.  He  did  not 
know  how  to  replenish  it. 

He  did  not  want  to  go  out  and  buy.  A  neighbour 
or  some  man  on  business  might  come  while  he  was  out. 
Getting  no  answer  when  they  rang,  they  might  look 
over  the  wire  blind,  they  too. 

There  was  no  knowing  what  people  might  not  do. 
The  door  in  the  garden  wall  was  locked  but  it  was  easy 
to  come  over  by  the  stones.  Antiks  had  come  that 
way,  Jenifer.  He  thought  of  somebody  peering  into 
the  firelit  kitchen,  seeing  .  .  . 

The  settle  he  had  burnt  was  conspicuously  there,  the 
settle  and  its  occupant.  No  one  could  help  seeing  it. 

He  passed  a  hand  over  his  forehead.  Nowadays 
his  brain  seemed  full  of  woolly  cloud.  Other  people — 
why,  of  course,  other  people  might  not  be  able  to  see 
the  settle. 

238 


THE   HAUNTING  239 

Or  they  might,  he  could  not  be  sure.  Antiks  had 
not  seen  it.  He  felt  pretty  certain,  now,  that  she  had 
been  quite  unaware  of  its  existence.  Ah,  but  that 
was  because  the  haunt  was  a  thing  that  grew  on  you . . . 
It  was  at  first  only  a  feeling.  It  took  a  long  time  to 
become  visible.  In  the  end  though  it  was  so  over- 
whelmingly real  that  material  objects  grew  insubstan- 
tial beside  it. 

That  had  been  his  experience  and,  naturally,  would 
be  the  experience  of  others.  Antiks,  anyone  in  the 
house,  must  in  time  become  aware  of  it ;  faintly 
aware,  then  more  so,  and  at  last,  unable  to  think  of 
anything  else.  Yes,  he  must  keep  everyone  out  and 
in  order  to  do  so  he  must  be  on  the  spot. 

Pascoe  should  not  succeed  in  letting  the  town  know 
that  he  had  been  put  away — justly,  oh  yes,  justly  ! 
He  would  come,  in  time,  to  see  it  was  hopeless.  Gale 
could  -be  as  dogged  as  he  'was  patient.  They  were, 
after  all,  brothers,  two  of  a  kind,  and  he  had  always 
taken  the  lead.  Pascoe  had  often  had  to  give  in  and 
now  again  .  .  .  but  this  was  not  Pascoe,  not  really 
Pascoe  ! 

The  spirit  of  vengeance  !  A  spirit  that  Pascoe,  dy- 
ing, had  released.  He  was  dead  and  by  now  rotten. 
It  was  not  he  who  lay,  with  circumstance,  on  the 
settle  ;  who 

No,  he  had  not  moved.  It  was  the  flicker  of  the 
flames. 

Gale,  heating  water  for  a  necessary  washing  of  plates 
and  dishes,  began  to  clear  the  table.  Hardly  conscious 
of  the  act,  he  tried  to  put  aside  a  wineglass  the  bottom 
of  which  was  black  with  sediment.  Long  since,  he 
had  made  a  hole  in  the  turf  fire,  dropped  in  that  glass 
and  left  it  to  melt,  yet  it  still  stood  on  the  table.  He 


240  THE   HAUNTING 

was  afraid  lest,  by  accident,  he  might  pick  it  up, 
drink  those  dregs.  Nonsense,  of  course,  but  nowadays 
he  had  absurd  ideas. 

He  put  the  plates  and  knives  and  forks  in  the  dish- 
pan.  His  fingers  were  numb,  so  numb  that  it  was 
difficult  to  realize  the  water  was  hot. 


ii 

A  bare  larder  !  Though  the  store  cupboard  con- 
tained rows  of  last  year's  jam,  a  man  cannot  live  on 
jam.  He  had  known  plenty  of  fellows  who  managed 
for  themselves  ;  ah,  but  how  ?  Where  did  they  get 
their  food  ?  He  could  not  but  think  that  somewhere 
in  the  shadows,  there  must  have  been  a  woman.  They 
had  not  admitted  it,  had  been  proud  of  being  able  to 
do  without  help,  and  he  had  believed  them.  But  he 
was  grown  dubious. 

The  larder  must  be  replenished.  Not  that  he  was 
hungry,  but  that  in  order  to  keep  well  he  must  eat, 
and  in  order  to  eat  must  have  cooked  food.  Well  ? 
He  wondered  if  he  were.  He  supposed  so,  but  he  was 
never  hungry — the  fault,  perhaps,  of  the  food — and 
he  slept  badly.  Yes,  very  badly  and  his  dreams  ! 
Such  dreams,  full  of  tumult  and  violence  and,  once 
or  twice,  of  grief.  In  those  last  he  had  been  a  little 
boy  and  his  mother  was  dead.  All  those  years  dead, 
yet  he  grieved  as  he  had  the  evening  they  came  to 
tell  him  of  the  accident  that  had  killed  her. 

When  he  woke,  his  chest  was  heaving  and  a  band 
seemed  to  be  fastened  tightly  round  his  head.  Gener- 
ally there,  when  he  woke,  that  band.  After  he  had 
eaten  breakfast  it  loosened  and  as  the  morning  passed 
he  would  forget  he  had  been  troubled  with  it.  To 


THE  HAUNTING  241 

him,  night  brought,  not  sleep,  but  hours  of  thought, 
during  which  he  swung  from  one  explanation  of  the 
haunt  to  another.  When  at  last  he  dropped  off,  he 
was  whirled  about,  unrestfully,  by  the  dreams.  It 
was,  he  thought,  little  wonder  that  he  woke  to  that 
tightness  about  his  temples. 

If  he  could  only  fix  his  mind  on  something  outside 
himself  and  his  affairs  !  If  he  could  leave  off  worrying 
about  the  haunt  and  its  potentialities,  think  of — why 
not  of  his  neglected  business  ? 

The  people  of  Stowe,  their  concerns,  their  troubles, 
felt  curiously  far  away  and  unimportant.  He  saw 
them  through  a  cloud  of  dust  that  some  wind  out  of 
clear  skies  had  blown  across  his  path.  They  were  as 
large,  as  vital,  as  compelling  as  ever,  it  was  the  dust. 

He  must  not  allow  it  to  affect  him,  he  must  pull 
himself  together,  force  an  interest.  If  he  did,  he 
might  hope  presently  to  feel  the  old  keen  wish  to  be 
of  use.  Meanwhile  there  was  still  that  affair  of  the 
Rabeys — Carrie  at  home  with  her  mother  and  he 
carrying  on  with  the  girl  at  the  Cornish  Arms.  Poor 
Carrie,  she  was  consumptive,  before  long  she  would  be 
out  of  the  way  and  Rabey  would  be  able  to  marry  the 
other  woman.  The  marriage  vow  was  till  "  death  us 
do  part."  It  was  horrible  to  think  of  them  waiting 
for — that.  Mr.  Corlyon  had  been  asked  to  have  a 
talk  with  Rabey,  see  what  could  be  done  ;  but  some- 
one with  less  sentiment  than  he  was  attending  to  the 
matter.  So  often  the  way  .  .  .  things  arranged 
themselves  !  Yet  sometimes  one  could  help — which 
reminded  him  that  Mrs.  Rosewarne  of  Crug  had  asked 
him  to  meet  her  at  the  market  and  that  it  was  Satur- 
day. She  wanted  his  advice  with  regard  to  selling 
that  field  on  the  edge  of  the  town. 


242  THE  HAUNTING 

The  fresh  air  might  be  good  for  his  head.  Ah,  but 
he  had  forgotten  the  house — the  possible  visitors  ! 
Saturday — on  a  Saturday  everybody  was  busy  !  If 
he  were  to  hurry  there  and  hurry  back  .  .  . 

The  glare  of  day,  the  glitter  of  dancing  water,  hurt 
his  eyes  and  he  pulled  his  hat  forward.  For  weeks 
he  had  lived  in  the  half-dark  of  the  house  and  it  was 
pleasant  to  be  out.  Mechanically  he  took  note  of  the 
weather.  The  wind  had  gone  back  into  rainy  country, 
but  for  the  moment  the  day  was  pretty  enough. 

Threading  his  way  between  the  stalls,  greeting  the 
farmers'  wives,  Mrs.  Prin  of  Ludgian  Veal,  Phillipa 
Old  of  Bosence,  young  Mrs.  Rodda,  his  glance  fell 
idly  on  the  wares  displayed.  Why — here  was  food, 
the  cooked  food  of  which  he  stood  in  need.  Fresh 
bread  and  cake  for  hussies  who  were  too  lazy  to  bake 
their  own,  pasties,  butter,  eggs,  cream.  Bate  and 
Catley  had  ordered  a  boiled  and  bread-crumbed  ham 
from  Mrs.  Old,  but  she  was  willing  to  let  Mr.  Corlyon 
buy  it.  She  liked  the  handsome  face  of  him,  would  as 
soon  he  had  it. 

"  Be  'ee  goin'  to  carr'  it  in  with  'ee  ?  " 

He  had  not  thought  of  that.     "  I  suppose  I  am." 

"  Or  shall  I  send  it  ?  " 

That  would  not  do  at  all.     "  I'll  take  it,  thank  you." 

"  Better  'ave  a  frail.  Gipsy  Lee  at  the  other  end  got 
a  plenty." 

Mr.  Corlyon,  with  some  of  the  old  graciousness, 
raised  his  hat.  He  would  buy  the  basket  and,  after 
he  had  had  the  arranged-for  talk  with  Mrs.  Rosewarne, 
would  hurry  home.  Already  he  repented  the  impulse 
that  had  brought  him  out.  Who  knew  what  might 
not  be  happening  within  doors  ? 

He  avoided  French  Street.     If  he  were  to  go  down 


THE   HAUNTING  243 

it  he  would  not  have  the  strength  to  pass  the  baby- 
linen  shop.  Something  would  draw  him  over  the 
drexel,  into  the  house.  At  the  back  of  his  mind  was  a 
shadowy  feeling  that,  at  the  worst,  Morwenna  might 
in  some  way  resolve  his  difficulties,  save  him  from — 
not  himself,  but — oh,  the  whole  thing. 

Absurd,  that  idea,  for  he  was  going  to  save  himself. 
He  did  not  quite  know  how,  had  not  thought  it  out, 
had  only  made  a  beginning.  The  weekly  market  had 
solved  the  difficulty  of  food,  the  fresh  air  had  relieved 
his  headache.  He  could  think  of  that  growing  devel- 
oping haunt  with  a  better  heart. 

That  growing,  developing  haunt.  .  .  . 

In  spite  of  himself,  he  almost  ran  up  the  path  from 
gate  to  door. 


in 

The  market,  the  gossip  he  had  heard,  the  change 
of  scene,  had  stirred  him  to  a  defiance  of  Pascoe. 
That  evening  he  resolved  to  have  his  supper  as 
usual  in  the  kitchen.  Setting  the  ham  on  the 
table — that  table  which,  however  defiant  he  might 
feel,  he  could  not  clear — he  flanked  it  with  the  crusty 
bread,  the  yellow  butter.  A  better  supper  than  he 
had  had  since  Antiks  left  !  It  looked  so  good  that 
he  could  almost  believe  he  was  hungry.  At  any  rate, 
he  would  be  able  to  eat. 

He  cut  the  ham — no  matter  that  the  plate  had  been 
insufficiently  rinsed,  that  the  knives  were  darkly 
iridescent  and  the  forks  dull.  He  broke  a  crust  off  the 
loaf  and  was  spreading  it  thick  with  the  butter — 

Surely  he  was  not  alone  in  the  room  ?  A  move- 
ment . 


244  THE   HAUNTING 

It  must  be  the  fire.  A  fire  made  noises,  threw 
shadows.  You  did  not  live  by  yourself  in  a  house 
without  knowing  how — er — companionable  a  fire  was. 
Not  daunting,  no,  companionable. 

He  turned  back  to  his  supper,  put  food  into  his 
mouth,  but  that  suspicion  of  movement  .  .  . 

The  thick  shadow  of  Pascoe  lay  on  the  settle.  It 
lay  there  day  and  night.  It  lay  as  the  dead  lie.  The 
dead  do  not  move  and  yet — Mr.  Corlyon's  knife 
slipped  from  his  hand,  rattled  on  to  the  plate.  If 
Pascoe 

The  top  layer  of  peat  had  hollowed  gradually  now, 
breaking,  it  let  out  a  flame.  Shadows  sprang  up  the 
wall,  a  shadow  was  rising  from  the  settle. 

Pascoe  ! 

It  rose,  it  came  over  to  the  table,  it  sat  where  Pascoe 
had  sat.  Mr.  Corlyon  drew  back.  He  was  not  afraid, 
no  ...  but  .  .  . 

He  did  not  want  it  touch  him  ! 

If  it  were  to  put  out  a  hand,  brush  his,  oh,  just 
accidentally,  something  in  him  might  give  way.  He 
was,  he  felt,  on  the  edge — yet  he  had  known  that  this 
would  happen.  He  ought  not  to  feel  so  surprised, 
so  startled.  A  moment — he  would  be  all  right  in  a 
moment. 

He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  sat  as  far  as  he  could  from 
the  dark  semblance  of  Pascoe.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on 
that  thick  but  not  solid  blackness.  It  was  actually 
there,  and  it  would  not  go  away  ;  it  was  there  like 
the  decanter  in  the  parlour,  like  the  settle.  It  would 
be  eternally  there.  He,  living  with  it,  would  have  to 
accustom  himself  to  the  change.  He  would,  too, 
but  he  must  have  time. 

Yes,  time.     Even  now  he  no  longer  felt  afraid. 


THE  HAUNTING  245 

p 

Nonsense,  he  had  not  been  afraid.  What — afraid  of 
a  shadow  ? 

The  figure  stretched  a  hand  and  a  shudder  shook 
Mr.  Corlyon,  but  the  hand  was  stretched  to  something 
on  the  table.  Heavens — it  had  picked  up  the  glass, 
the  wineglass  with  that  black  sediment. 

Mr.  Corlyon  pushed  back  his  chair.  This  was  more 
than  he  could  stand.  A  ghost  moved,  yes,  he  had 
known  they  did  ;  but  he  had  not  known  they  could 
move  with  a  settled  purpose.  If  this  figure  were  to 
re-enact  what  was  done  and  finished  with,  it  would 
make  of  the  past  an  undying  present. 

That  must  be  what  Pascoe  intended  !  His  ven- 
geance on  Gale  would  be  to  let  everyone  know,  every- 
one who  came  into  the  house.  Gale  had  countered 
that  by  shutting  his  doors  to  all  the  world.  He  could 
endure  the  sight  of  Pascoe — of  this  thing  that  was  not 
Pascoe  but  made  in  his  image — could  live  with  it. 
Yes,  it  should  not  get  the  better  of  him.  There  was 
nothing  he  could  not,  would  not,  endure,  nothing. 

He  went  into  the  parlour.  There  at  least  he  would 
be  alone.  As  long  as  he  had  some  corner  of  the  house 
to  himself,  he  would  be  all  right.  He  lifted  the  edge 
of  the  peat,  let  out  flames  and  heat.  Ah,  that  was 
better  !  He  settled  down  in  his  chair,  began  to  read — 
but  he  found  his  thoughts  straying.  While  he  was 
absent,  what  was  the  apparition  doing  ?  He  did  not 
want  to  know,  but  he  must.  It  flashed  upon  him  that 
if  the  thing  could  move  about  the  kitchen,  take  up  a 
glass  .  .  . 

Why  there  was  no  knowing  where  it  might  not  go, 
what  it  might  not  do. 


246  THE  HAUNTING 

IV 

Another  wakeful  night,  but  he  had  got  something 
out  of  it.  How  if  he  were  to  destroy  the  house  and  its 
unseemly  inmates  ?  A  leak  of  oil  here  and  there  and  a 
match  !  The  place  was  old  and  full  of  dry  wood  ; 
it  would  burn  like  carpenters'  shavings.  How  about 
Pascoe  and  his  vengeance,  then  ? 

Not  being  insured,  he  was  free  to  do  as  he  liked.  He 
would  wrong  no  man  if  he  let  the  place  go  up  in  flames, 
and  he  would  be  rid  of  the  haunt 

To  be  rid  of  it  would  be  worth  his  home,  his  so- 
called  comfort,  even  the  savings  in  the  pigskin  bags — 
worth  the  world  !  With  him  it  had  come  to  that  ! 
Anything  to  be  rid  of  this  ghastly  obsession.  And 
fire  was  cleansing.  The  house  had  been  attacked  by  a 
disease  against  which  limewashing,  spring-cleaning, 
was  of  no  avail.  Drastic  measures,  then. 

Arson  ?  Nonsense,  a  man  had  the  right  to  burn  his 
own  house.  Mr.  Corlyon  would  be  careful  to  choose  a 
still  day — he  did  not  want  to  endanger  the  warehouses 
at  the  end  of  the  road  !  It  would  go  up,  the  old 
house,  like  a  burnt  offering,  a  spire  of  flame  rising 
into  the  blue. 

Only  after  he  had  eaten  his  breakfast  did  it  occur 
to  him  that  once  before  he  had  burnt  something — ah, 
yes,  the  settle  !  And  though  he  had  seen  it  crumble 
into  white  ash  it  was  still  there. 

He  might  set  fire  to  the  house  but  could  he  destroy 
it  ?  The  flames  might  eat  wood  and  plaster,  might 
blacken  the  stone  foundations,  but  could  they  touch  the 
spirit  of  the  house  ?  When  the  burning  was  at  an  end 
might  not  a  frail  outline  persist,  walls  which  though 
dim  as  if  seen  through  mist  would  yet  be  visible,  walls 


THE  HAUNTING  247 

through  whose  transparency  the  story  of  Pascoe 
might  be  played  in  the  sight  of  Stowe  ? 

He  was  assured  it  would  be  so  played — trust  Pascoe 
for  that.  "  I'll  leave  the  town  know."  They  would 
not  know  what  of  black-heartedness  on  Pascoe 's  part 
had  brought  it  about.  They  would  see  only  what 
Pascoe  wanted  them  to  see. 

The  burning  of  the  settle  had  marked  a  stage  in  the 
development  of  the  haunt.  He  might  have  thought 
it  had  released  a  force — forces.  If  he  were  to  meddle 
again — oh,  better  not. 


One  thing  at  least  was  certain.  Never  again  would 
he  try  to  sit  down  to  his  meals  in  the  kitchen.  Pascoe 
should  have  the  place  to  himself.  A  dirty  place  it 
was,  too,  but  he  could  not  help  that.  He  must  not 
have  anyone  in  to  clean  it.  ... 

As  Antiks  would  have  said,  the  room  was  "  walkin' 
from  door  to  door."  Good  old  Antiks,  how  comfort- 
able she  had  made  him  ;  how  he  wished  he  could  have 
her  back,  hear  her  moving  about — but  he  heard  some- 
one in  the  kitchen,  oh,  impossible,  a  wraith  does  not 
make  a  sound  !  But — someone  was  there — 

He  must  bear  it  in  mind  that  what  moved  about  the 
kitchen  was  not  Pascoe.  All  that  had  been  human  of 
his  brother  was  dead.  Utterly  and  for  ever  dead. 
The  haunt  was  not  a  man,  it  was  not  even  a  spirit. 
He  thought  of  it  as  having  a  sort  of  life,  a  life  that  was 
malignant,  that  could  not  hurt  him  yet,  but  which 
might,  later  on. 

If  only  he  knew  how  to  deal  with  ...  er  ... 
whatever  it  was.  Clergymen  existed — there  was  one 


248  THE  HAUNTING 

at  the  Lizard — who  declared  that  they  could  exorcise 
haunts.  They  did  it  for  five  guineas  and  it  was  cheap 
at  that.  He  had  not  hitherto  had  much  use  for  par- 
sons ;  but  if  they  could  effectually  banish  ghosts  they 
had  their  uses. 

How  if  he  were  to  ask  the  Rev.  Paul  Bodrugan  to 
come  over  ? 

If  he  did,  he  would  have  to  explain  the  apparition. 
It  would  then  be  Mr.  Bodrugan's  duty  to  hand  him 
over  to  the  police.  He  linked  his  hands,  clasped  them 
round  his  neck,  tightened  them  slowly.  It  would 
mean — that. 

He  was  beginning  to  think  it  did  not  much  matter 
what  happened  to  him.  Ah  yes,  one  thing  mattered, 
always  had,  always  would.  For  him  to  swing  would 
mean  that  Pascoe  had  got  the  better  of  him.  That — 
he  could  not  stand  that. 


VI 

The  primroses  were  a  foam  of  pale  yellow  at  the 
foot  of  Gudda  Hill.  Mr.  Corlyon,  fetching  wood  one 
evening  from  the  shed  in  the  garden,  saw  them  and 
realized  that  spring  had  come.  A  late  spring  that 
year,  a  spring  held  in  check  by  winds  that  nipped 
plum  and  apple-blow,  that  lay  dark  over  shivering 
seas. 

He  looked  longingly  at  the  flowers.  The  smooth 
bright  surfaces  of  growing  things  were  beautiful  : 
clean  petals  under  a  clean  sun  in  the  clean  air.  And 
the  earth  out  of  which  they  came,  into  which  they  sent 
fine  brown  roots,  that  too  was  clean.  Everything, 
except  the  foul  and  gloomy  house  in  which  he  lived, 
from  which  he  could  not  escape. 


THE  HAUNTING  249 

With  a  sigh  he  picked  up  the  wood.  He  loved 
clean  wholesome  things,  things  that  the  dew  washed 
and  the  wind  and  sun  kept  sweet.  But  he  must  not 
linger  for  it  was  growing  late. 

He  took  his  load  into  the  kitchen. 

A  curious  thing,  due,  of  course,  to  the  room  being  in 
semi-darkness,  yet  he  had  fancied — 

How  could  there  be  a  second  shadow  ? 

He  lit  the  lamp  with  hands  he  had  long  since  con- 
trolled to  steadiness,  stood  it  on  the  table  which; 
though  clear  of  tangible  objects,  was  cluttered  with 
the  remnants  of  a  meal,  then  looked  about  him. 
Pascoe  in  the  chair  by  the  table — but  that  was  what  he 
had  expected  to  see.  A  gust  of  fury  made  him  long  to 
lift  the  blazing  lamp,  bring  it  crashing  down  on  that 
figure  in  the  chair,  but  instinct  had  long  since  warned 
him  to  keep  himself  in  hand.  Once  he  let  himself  go — 
and  it  was  growing  increasingly  difficult  not  to — he 
might  not  be  able  to  get  back  to  the  old  deliberate  self. 
Hitherto,  whatever  he  had  done,  had  been  done  after 
consideration.  He  must  not  depart  from  what  had 
been  the  habit  of  his  life.  He  felt  it  to  be  peculiarly 
necessary  that  he  should  not. 

He  stood,  therefore,  with  his  hand  resting  on  the 
table  ;  that  it  was  clenched,  the  only  sign  of  his 
anger. 

A  man  long  buried,  yet  sitting  at  his  table  ! 

The  apparition  had  been  leaning  back.  It  turned 
towards  the  door  as  if  expectant,  and  Mr.  Corlyon 
found  that  he,  too,  was  expectant.  He  looked,  with 
it,  toward  the  door. 

It  was  closed,  but  someone  on  the  further  side  was 
pushing  with  a  foot,  had  pushed  it  back  ;  someone 
who  was  carrying — 


250  THE  HAUNTING 

Mr.  Corlyon  had  known  that  he  would  carry  a  little 
flagon,  a  little  flagon  half -full  of  wine.  He  was 
looking — a  sensation  of  nausea  gripped  him — he 
was  looking  at  himself. 


VII 

In  the  house  on  Quayside  were  two  wraiths,  the 
wraith  of  Pascoe  and  the  wraith  of  himself.  They 
moved,  enacting  a  fateful  drama,  re-enacting  it  for 
all  to  see. 

All,  that  is,  who  were  in  the  house.  They  acted 
it  where  it  had  happened,  reproducing  every  detail ; 
and  the  live  man  amidst  these  vehement  shadows 
seemed  the  least  real. 

This  last  phase  of  the  haunt  had  left  Mr.  Corlyon 
momentarily  unable  to  plan.  He  remained  looking 
on  in  a  sort  of  dull  maze. 

The  shadows  were  not  only  in  the  kitchen.  A 
wraith  decanted  wine  in  the  parlour,  dropped  poison 
into  the  mulling  horn,  carried  out  the  brew.  Shadows 
wrestled,  the  one  in  a  death  agony,  the  other  with  a 
face  that  Mr.  Corlyon  refused  to  believe  was  his. 
He  could  not  have  looked  so  furious,  so — he  would 
not  give  the  thing  its  name  ! 

Nor  were  the  movements  of  these  shadows  all 
that  was  happening  in  the  house.  Mr.  Corlyon  was 
beginning^  to  hear  things  as  well  as  see.  In  Pascoe's 
room  were  movements,  also  in  his  own  ;  steps  came 
and  went  on  the  stairs,  a  weight  which  he  thought 
of  as  a  heavy  body  was  dragged  along  the  passage. 

The  house  was  no  longer  his.  It  had  become  the 
setting  of  a  scene,  the  scene  of  Pascoe's  death.  He 
was  a  stranger  in  it,  a  stranger  of  whom  the  actors 


THE  HAUNTING  251 

took  no  notice,  a  stranger  who  wandered  in  and  out 
as  might  a  lost  dog.  The  haunt  had  pushed  him 
aside,  was  gradually  making  of  him — yes — of  him 
— a  shadowy  presence. 

What  could  he  do  ?  It  was  he  who  was  being 
ignored,  not  they.  The  rooms  were  theirs,  the  house 
was  theirs.  Almost  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  the 
living,  he  the  dead. 

Over  and  over  again  the  same  drama,  but  growing 
in  clearness  and  sharpness.  No  one  with  eyes  to  see 
could  fail  to  realize  that  he  had  killed  his  brother. 

They  would  not  know  why,  but — what  did  it  matter 
if  they  knew,  everything  .  .  .  ? 

VIII 

Broken  sleep  during  the  early  part  of  the  night 
generally  meant  for  Mr.  Corlyon  hours  of  heavy 
slumber  towards  dawn.  Although  this  sleep  was 
deep,  it  was  not  often  refreshing.  One  morning, 
however,  he  woke  out  of  black  quiet  into  a  world 
of  sun  and  breezes.  A  sail  was  flapping  against  the 
mast — no,  it  was  his  blind.  He  sprang  out  of  bed 
to  find  that  the  boats  were  dancing  on  a  full  tide, 
and  the  gulls  swooping  and  crying.  A  day  full  as 
the  tide,  full  of  life. 

Below  him  the  house  lay  shuttered  in  a  haunted 
stillness,  but  without,  in  his  little  garden,  the  daffodils 
of  the  new  spring  were  dancing,  the  bluebells  breathing 
honey.  He  balanced  the  one  against  the  other. 
The  house — the  flowers  !  The  air  was  blowing  in 
at  the  open  window,  the  keen  salt  air  ;  but  it  was  not 
blowing  for  him. 

He  knew  what  he  must  do. 

The  haunt  had  been  born  of  a  disordered  fancy  ; 


252  THE  HAUNTING 

but  for  one  tremendous  moment  the  mists  had  been 
blown  apart,  and  he  was  able  to  see  things  as  they 
actually  were.  The  haunt  was  a  fungus,  a  monstrous 
toadstool  of  the  mind. 

He  had  killed  his  brother.  Pascoe  had  deserved 
— not  perhaps  death,  but  death  had  been  the  only 
possible  outcome  of  the  situation,  and,  after  all, 
death,  what  was  it  ?  The  sacredness  of  human  life  ? 
Pah  !  The  Force  Behind  killed  with  disease,  with 
cancerous  growths,  killed  by  accidents,  through 
carelessness,  and  with  no  respect  of  person.  Man 
was  fodder,  the  appointed  food  of  germs.  He  was 
as  much  their  meat  as  bullocks  were  his.  Why  then 
all  this  fuss  ?  Nevertheless,  as  a  matter  of  justice, 
Mr.  Corlyon  was  not  so  sure — not  with  this  wind 
blowing — that  he  had  been  in  the  right.  If  he  had 
killed  Pascoe  in  cold  blood,  and  after  long  considera- 
tion— yes  ;  but  his  blood  had  been  hot.  He  had 
been  angered  to  the  depths  of  a  nature  unable  to  take 
things  lightly,  and  while  so  angered  he  had  struck. 
He  rubbed  a  bristly  chin  contemplatively.  He  had 
felt  too  strongly,  had  put  too  much  of  himself  into 
the  matter,  and  the  result  was  that,  in  killing  Pascoe 
he  had  damaged  himself,  his  mind  ;  and  what  he 
saw  and  heard  were  part  of  the  consequent  sickness, 
they  were  a  sort  of  delirious  vision. 

They  were  imagined,  they  were  not  real. 

The  reality  was  mouldering  flesh  and  white  bones, 
a  dead  man  at  the  end  of  the  fogou. 

IX 

He  was  sick,  and  he  must  get  well.  The  conclusion 
come  to,  he  forgot  the  trawlers  in  the  foreground, 
the  life  on  Quayside,  the  distant  curves  of  Brown 


THE  HAUNTING  253 

Willhay  and  Rowtor.  He  looked  beyond  the  hills, 
wondering.  The  cure  !  Was  there  no  cure  but  the 
one  ?  He  stood  for  a  long  time  with  the  wind  blowing 
on  his  head,  on  his  body  ;  and  every  moment  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  need  to  escape  was  growing 
more  urgent.  But  he  could  think  of  only  the  one 
way  out,  and  that  way  .  .  .  He  turned  back  at 
last  into  the  room.  Very  well,  then,  he  would  do 
as  he  must. 

He  shaved,  he  brushed  his  clothes.  Then,  without 
further  thought  he  ran  down  the  stairs,  out  of  the 
front  door.  He  had  a  feeling  that  if  he  did  not  run 
he  would  be  caught  by  what  ruled  the  dark  down- 
stairs of  the  place.  He  shut  his  ears,  therefore,  he 
almost  shut  his  eyes,  he  certainly  pulled  the  door 
to  behind  him  with  a  suggestive  sharpness.  It 
fell  into  place  with  a  resounding  clap,  and  he,  almost 
feverishly,  turned  the  key. 

The  faces  of  the  folk  were  quietly  intent  on  the 
business  of  living.  Mr.  Corlyon  marked  the  urchins 
playing  about  the  half-doors,  the  old  men^on  the 
benches — the  children  wholesomely  grubby,  the  old 
men,  clean  because  life  had  done  with  them  !  He 
drew  in  deep  breaths  of  air,  drew  in  the  goodness 
of  the  commonplace. 

He  had  turned  up  the  street.  As  if  acting  on  a 
decision  to  which  he  had  long  since  come,  and  about 
which  there  was  no  question,  he  went — to  Morwenna. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


THE  gate  clanged  irrevocably  on  Mrs.  Liddicoat. 
She  walked  slowly  up  the  road,  surprised  to  find  that 
she  was  hardly  able  to  put  one  foot  before  the  other. 
She  was  tired,  and  life  had  gone  out  of  her.  She  was 
so  tired  that  she  was  dizzy.  When  she  reached  her 
house,  she  went  into  the  kitchen  and  sat  down  on 
the  nearest  chair.  For  a  long  while  she  sat  there 
in  her  outdoor  clothes,  numb,  lost,  hardly  alive. 
About  her  the  night  fell ;  in  time,  the  fire  went  out, 
and  she  was  alone  in  the  dark.  But  she  was  without 
the  en€?gy  to  move.  Why  should  she  ?  It  was 
finished. 

The  faint  starlight  fell  through  the  little  window. 
It  had  four  panes,  and  the  wood  of  the  sashes  was  a 
darkness  between  the  squares.  The  squares  moved 
slowly,  very  slowly  across  the  floor.  Mrs.  Liddicoat 's 
eyes  saw  the  dim  lights,  followed  them  without 
knowing  what  she  saw,  without  knowing  anything1. 
Life  was  over,  and  she  had  no  feeling,  not  even  grief. 

The  kitchen  grew  cold,  and  the  little  squares 
brighter.  A  shudder  shook  her,  and  the  numbness 
began  to  pass.  Light,  real  light  was  extinguishing 
the  stars.  Life  might  be  over  for  one,  here  and  there, 
but  over  by  Rowtor  the  sun  was  rising. 

254 


THE  HAUNTING  255 

ii 

The  house  was  no  longer  a  shop.  No  need,  then, 
for  her  to  sit  in  the  public  gaze,  to  sit  behind  her 
counter,  pretending  and  smiling.  She  might  remain 
in  the  kitchen,  do  what  she  would,  leave  undone  the 
foolish  unnecessary  things  that,  once  upon  a  time, 
had  filled  her  days.  Yes,  when  she  had  been  happy, 
and  before,  when  she  had  merely  been  content. 
Ah,  but  she  had  been  happy  longer  than  she  would 
have  cared  to  acknowledge.  For  ten  years  she  had 
had  his  friendship — had  seen  him  once,  at  least, 
during  the  week.  Now  she  had  lost  even  that,  she 
had  lost  everything. 

She  did  not  invent  tasks  for  herself.  Shutting 
her  door,  she  sat  behind  it  with  her  hands  in  her 
lap.  Her  knitting  lay  on  a  chair,  and  she  let  it  lie. 
He  no  longer  wanted  her  to  make  stockings  for  him. 

She  had  won  him,  but  she  had  not  been  able  to 
keep  him,  and  now  that  the  episode  was  at  an  end 
he  would  want — of  course  he  would,  but  how  it  hurt 
— he  would  want  to  forget  that  it  had  ever  been. 
His  love  had  flashed  for  a  moment,  but  because  she 
had  had  lines  in  her  face  and  greying  hair,  it  had 
not  strengthened  into  an  enduring  flame.  A  flicker, 
and  it  had  gone  out. 

The  lines  and  the  white  hairs  were  outside,  but 
she,  she  who  was  inside,  she  was  still  young.  About 
the  woman  inside  he  knew  nothing,  yet  it  was  she 
who  loved  him,  she  who  was  sitting  hopeless  in  the 
dark. 


256  THE  HAUNTING 

in 

Though  Mrs.  Liddicoat  was  a  robust  woman,  she 
lost  appetite,  lost  strength.  Jenifer,  coming  into 
town,  was  surprised  to  find  her  actually  ill,  and  the 
consequent  fuss  caused  Mrs.  Liddicoat,  in  self-defence, 
to  make  some  sort  of  effort.  It  would  have  been 
easier,  more  pleasant  to  drift  from  one  depth  to 
another  until  the  blackness  covered  you,  but  she 
had  not  finished  with  life,  only  with  love. 

"  Men  and  women  are  not  the  same,"  she  told 
herself,  "  a  man's  love  blazes  up  fiercely,  but  'tis 
soon  over,  a  woman  goes  on  lovin.'  ' 

Nor  was  it  as  hard  lines  on  the  woman  as  it  seemed. 
Her  heart  turned  to  one  man,  broke  into  flower  for 
him,  and  went  on  blooming.  Hers  the  delight  of 
that  unfolding  and  opening  and  giving.  It  was  for 
him  ;  and  sometimes  he  was  able  to  take  it,  but  very 
often  not.  Even  if  he  could  not,  she  had  had  the 
giving,  the  joy  of  it. 

But  also  the  aftermath  of  pain.  Ah,  well,  and  that, 
you  had  to  bear  it.  It  was  terrible — that  unending 
ache.  .  .  . 

"  I  love'n,"  Morwenna  told  herself,  "  and  he  don't 
want  me,  and  I'm  terrible  sorry,  but  I'll  love'n  till 
I'm  under  the  turf.  My  heart  do  ache  with  longing, 
but  the  longing'll  be  over  one  of  these  days,  and  I'll 
still  have  the  love.  'Tis  sorrow  and  sighing  now,  but 
I'll  be  better  of  it  in  time." 

IV 

Though  Denny  Manhire  offered  to  dig  over  his 
mother-in-law's  garden  and  plant  it  for  her,  Mrs. 
Liddicoat  was  of  opinion  that  a  little  hard  work 
would  be  good  for  her  ,  ,  ,  you  don't  break  your 


THE  HAUNTING         .  257 

heart  if  you  are  breaking  your  back.  She  would 
set  her  own  seed  potatoes,  sow  her  own  onions,  and 
cabbage,  and  lettuce.  It  would  give  her  something 
to  do. 

She  began  to  feel  an  interest  in  the  pushing  shoots, 
and  every  morning,  as  soon  as  she  had  lighted  the 
kitchen  fire,  would  walk  up  the  flagged  path  with 
its  edging  of  violets,  and  scan  the  beds  to  see  if  any 
yellow-green  heads  had  broken  through  the  clods 
during  the  night.  Though  your  personal  life  was 
at  a  standstill,  growth  went  on — a  world  of  plants, 
busy  each  with  its  pushing  and  leafing. 

If  only  the  days  were  not  so  empty,  and  so  full  of 
echoes.  But  you  must  not  look  in  on  that  emptiness, 
you  must  look  out  ;  look  at  the  buds  on  the  pear 
tree,  the  fat  ones  with  their  promise  of  fruit,  the  thin 
pointed  ones  that  would  unroll  into  leaves,  look  at 
Jenifer  growing  reconciled  to  life  with  her  kind  young 
husband,  at  Jenifer  who  soon  would  have  a  new 
interest.  For  Mrs.  Liddicoat,  too,  there  would  be 
the  interest  of  Jenifer's  child.  Yes,  yes,  a  little 
patience. 

Ah,  easy  to  say  .  .  . 

"  I  wonder,  Mammy,  that  you  don't  live  at  Carn- 
rose  now  that  you've  sold  the  shop.  Mrs.  Morecambe's 
take  is  up  at  Christmas,  and  you  always  said  you'd 
like  to  try  farming." 

Carnrose  had  come  to  her  from  her  father.  Loveday 
had  had  the  money,  and  she  the  land.  She — they — 
had  been  born  in  the  old  roomy  house,  spent  their 
youth  on  the  farm  ;  but,  could  she  go  back  ? 

"  Nothing  to  keep  you  in  Stowe,"  Jenifer  said. 

Only  the  hope  that  she  might  get  a  glimpse  of 
him  !  His  voice  on  the  street  as  he  went  by,  his 
R 


258  THE   HAUNTING 

shadow  thrown  on  the  drexel,  the  passing  of  that 
spare  knit  figure — nothing  to  keep  her  in  Stowe  ? 
"  Perhaps  when  Michaelmas  comes,  I  may  be  able 
to  go." 

If  she  went  to  Carnrose  she  would  take  Jenifer  with 
her  ;  Jenifer,  and  the  child,  and  Denny. 

"  You'd  like  to  have  calves  and  chickens,  Mammy, 
and  come  in  to  market  Saturdays." 

Calves  and  chickens — yes  ;  but  she  would  not 
like  to  come  in  to  the  market  !  She  would  be  hoping 
all  the  time  for  a  sight  of  Gale.  Her  heart  would  be 
burning,  and  she  would  be  eaten  up  with  the  fire  of 
it.  As  she  was  now  !  No,  if  she  went,  it  would  be 
to  bury  herself.  She  would  turn  her  back  on  Stowe, 
try  to  forget  its  lanes,  the  rooms  in  which  he  had 
kissed  her,  the  house  in  which  he  was  still  living. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  she  told  Jenifer,  "I'll  think 
of  it." 

And  as  she  dug  the  dark  garden  earth,  and  scattered 
seed,  and  weeded,  she  did  think. 

Living  in  Stowe  was  like  having  an  open  sore  on 
your  face.  The  wind  and  the  dust  chafed  it,  it  had 
no  chance  to  heal ;  but  if  she  covered  it  with  space 
between,  if  she  went  away  ?  Yet  the  hope  that  at 
any  moment,  any  divine  moment  she  might  see  him  ! 
How  could  she  give  that  up  ? 

See  him  !  She  thought  that  if  once  more  he  were 
to  cross  her  threshold  she  would  not  be  able  to  speak  ; 
she  would  sink  on  the  floor,  and  lay  her  head  on  his 
knee,  and  stay  there,  just  stay  there,  silent,  and 
feel  the  pain  draining  out  of  her  heart.  Give  up  the 
hope  of  that  ?  Oh,  no,  Not  when  Michaelmas  came  ? 

Not  as  long  as  he  lived. 


THE   HAUNTING  259 


Never  had  she  had  such  a  crop  of  violets.  She 
would  gather  a  few,  make-believe  that  she  was 
gathering  them  for  his — their — breakfast  -table.  The 
flowers  had  an  early-morning  smell  of  dew  and  earth, 
but  when  the  sun  was  stronger  they  would  give  out 
their  scent.  She  would  put  them  in  a  bowl  and  place 
the  bowl  where  the  sunlight  coming  through  the 
window  could  fall  on  them.  Fresh,  sweet,  and  for  his 
eyes. 

She  carried  a  loose  handful  into  the  kitchen, 
began  to  set  the  thin  stems — one  at  a  time,  that  all 
should  have  their  drink — in  water. 

A  hand  pushed  at  the  street-door,  the  door  that 
was  never  locked.  Morwenna  looked  up  from  the 
violets,  and  as  she  saw  who  was  coming  in,  her  heart 
stood  still,  her  body  flushed  with  flame. 

!V{r.  Corlyon  walked  quickly  through  the  outer 
room.  Without  a  word  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  held 
her  close,  held  her  as  if  never  again  would  he  let  her 
go. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


"  DON'T  look  to  me  as  if  you'd  had  any  breakfast. 
Set  down  here,"  Morwenna  led  him  to  the  sofa, 
"  and  see  me  cook  something  for  you."  She  did  not 
want,  after  all,  to  rest  against  him  till  the  longing 
had  drained  out  of  her,  till  she  was  full  of  new  joy. 
Why,  she  was  full  already,  in  a  twink  ;  the  sight  of 
him  had  been  enough,  and  what  she  wanted  was  to 
do  something  for  him,  spend  herself,  give. 

She  was  brimming  with  glad  energy,  suddenly 
full  of  life  ;  and  she  would  cook  him  the  best  break- 
fast ever  man  ate. 

Mr.  Corlyon  took  the  corner  of  the  sofa  that  was 
nearest  to  the  stairs.  It  commanded  the  linhay 
and  the  kitchen,  and  would  enable  him  to  watch 
Morwenna  as  she  prepared  his  food.  His  woman 
cooking  his  food  !  The  comfort,  the  righteousness 
of  it.  Her  pleasure  to  give,  and  his  to  take.  And  oh, 
the  relief  it  was  to  be  with  her. 

He  need  not  think  of  the  Brown  House  and  its 
gruesome  shadows,  and  of  what  was  to  come.  He 
might,  and  what  was  more,  he  would,  live  in  the 
moment.  Here,  he  was  a  man,  not  a  shadow,  and 
it  did  not  matter  what  Pascoe  did. 

He,  Gale,  would  save  his  soul.  That  was  what 
ultimately  mattered.  Your  fellow  men  might  mis- 
understand, might  condemn,  might  penalize  you, 

260 


THE  HAUNTING  261 

but  they  could  not  pass  the  defences  of  your  spirit, 
could  not  get  at  the  real  you. 

Whatever  happened  now,  he  was  safe  from  ultimate 
disaster. 

When  Morwenna  called  him  to  the  table,  he  ate 
and  drank  as  he  had  not  since  last  he  sat  there. 

"  You  are  gone  to  skin  and  bone  ;  nothing  but  a 
proper  skintrell,"  she  told  him  with  a  little  break  in 
her  voice.  "  My  tender  soul,  what  have  you  been 
doing  to  yourself  ?  " 

He  must  not  tell  her.     "  Working,"  he  said. 

"  Then  you  must  give  over  working  for  a  bit." 

His  eyes,  those  eyes  that  were  so  tired,  looked 
kindly  on  her.  "  It  will  be  for  you  to  say  how  much 
I  do." 

"  For  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  not^  brought  my  desk." 

She  saw  the  question  in  his  eyes,  but  did  not  dare 
to  believe  she  read  it  aright.  "  No  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  stay  for  a  thing,  I  just  came  and  " — the 
question  was  clear — "  and  I  am  not  going  back." 

She  answered  out  of  her  full  and  happy,  gloriously 
happy  heart.  "  That  is  all  I  want." 


ii 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  do  my  marketing,  there's  nothing  in  the 
larder." 

"  I  will  come  with  you." 

She  felt  glad  that  Jenifer  should  have  insisted  on 
retrimming  her  bonnet.  She  was  going  out  with 
him.  All  Stowe  would  see  that  she  was  with  him, 
and  she  must  look  her  best.  Ah,  it  was  good  to  have 


262  THE  HAUNTING 

someone  for  whom  you  put  on  your  finest  clothes. 
Yesterday,  how  little  she  had  cared  !  "  You  won't 
mind  waiting  about  ?  " 

"  Not  if  you  are  there." 

As  they  left  the  house,  he  turned  up  the  street. 
"  You  are  going  the  longest  way  round." 

"  Any  hurry  ?  " 

None,  of  course,  and  anyway,  he  might  do  as  he 
would.  It  was  not  until  they  were  in  butcher  Andrew's 
shop  and  she  was  buying  lamb  for  pasties  that  she 
perceived  a  change  in  Gale.  He  was  no  longer  the 
good  and  genial  listener  to  whom  all  the  town  could 
talk.  Andrew  was  showing  her  the  little  marbles 
with  which  he  shot  his  beef : — "  and  afterwards  I 
take'n  out  of  the  brain,  and  wash'n  and  put'n  by 
for  the  next."  The  Gale  with  whom  she  had  for  so 
long  been  familiar  would  have  examined  the  marbles, 
asked  questions  ;  but  this  man  glanced  away.  How 
butcher  killed  his  beef  was  for  Gale  a  matter  of  no 
interest. 

Putting  the  parcels  in  her  basket,  she  glanced  at 
him.  Of  what  was  he  thinking  ?  He  was  looking 
out  of  butcher's  window  at  the  sea.  It  was  almost 
as  if  the  dancing  glitter  of  the  water  fascinated  him. 
When  she  touched  his  arm,  he  moved,  but  as  if  in 
a  dream. 

Useless  to  question  him.  He  could  talk  of  outside 
impersonal  things,  but  otherwise  he  had  always  been 
dumb.  His  depths  were  like  a  well.  She  thought 
of  them  as  covered  with  a  slab  of  blue  Delabole  slate. 
Under  the  slab,  deep  under,  what  had  been  happen- 
ing ? 

Nothing  in  any  way  connected  with  her.  Of  that 
she  was,  by  now,  pretty  sure.  He  did  love  her,  she 


THE  HAUNTING  263 

could  not  doubt  that  he  did.  Oh,  yes,  in  his  way, 
but  she  must  not  expect  too  much.  Enough  that 
he  was  hers  to  love. 

But — there  was  something  the  matter  with  him  ! 
He  had  some  trouble  ;  was  in  some  difficulty.  She 
could  not  guess  what  it  was  ;  perhaps  time  would 
give  her  the  key.  Meanwhile,  she  must  look  after 
him,  feed  him  up,  see  that  he  did  not  work  too  hard. 
In  the  bright  light  of  noon  his  face  showed  a  scoring 
of  fine  lines.  He  looked  older  and  very  thin,  and, 
yes,  ill.  Something  about  his  eyes — she  thought 
he  looked  more  than  ill. 


in 

That  evening,  after  supper,  Morwenna  put  chairs 
by  the  linhay  door.  "  We'll  sit  out  here  in  the  cool," 
she  said,  "  oh,  the  many  evenings  that  we  have  sat 
here." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.     "  The  many  evenings  !  " 
"  One  moment  while  I  get  my  knitting." 
He  stood  looking  after  her.     It  was  almost,  she 
thought,  as  if  he  could  not  bear  her  to  be  out  of  his 
sight.     The  house  was  in  darkness,   but  she  knew 
where  the  knitting  would  be,  and  it  was  easily  fixed. 
A  wad  of  straw,  a  stout  pin. 

"  If  you  only  knew  what  'tis  to  me  to  see  you 
standin'  there,"  and  she  put  her  arms  round  his 
neck. 

He  drew  her  close.     "  Go  on  loving  me " 

They  went  toward  the  chairs.     "  'Tis  what  I  live 
for.    I  have  been  ill  since  you  were  here.    In  bed  I 
was,  and  for  quite  a  time." 
"  No  ?     I'm  sorry." 


264  THE   HAUNTING 

"  And  while  I  was  laid  up,  I  learnt  that — 

"  What,  dear  ?  " 

"  That  'tis  what  I  live  for— to  love  'ee." 

He  put  a  hand  over  hers.    "  Go  on,  tell  me  about  it." 

He  had  been  with  her  all  day,  yet  he  had  given  her 
no  explanation  either  of  his  keeping  away,  or  his 
return.  He  had  glanced  at  her,  now  and  again, 
as  if  he  were  not  taking  things  quite  for  granted, 
but  he  had  not  spoken,  and  she  could  feel  for  him 
...  a  dumb  man  ...  If  he  only  knew  how  little 
it  mattered  ! 

His  staying  away  had  had  to  do  with  something 
other  than  love.  She  could  not  feel  that  anything 
but  love  was  of  real  importance,  but  that  was  a 
woman's  view,  and  men  thought  differently.  Each 
must  do  as  was  natural  to  her  or  him.  Morwenna's 
weeks  a-bed  had  been  a  time  of  quietening-down, 
of  accepting.  But  she  had  risen  convinced  that  live 
as  long  as  she  might,  she  would  love  Gale.  "  All  I 
want,"  she  said  soberly,  "is  to  spend  my  days 
doing  things  for  you." 

"  You'll  take  me  as  I  am,  Morwenna  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sure  I  will." 

Tempted,  he  went  a  step  further.  "  Don't  matter 
what  I've  done  ?  " 

She  had  put  her  other  hand  over  his,  and  between 
them  his  fingers,  dry  and  chilly,  were  growing  warm. 

"  No,  don't  make  a  bit  of  difference  to  me  what 
you  done." 

He  felt  her  assurance  as  helpful,  steadying,  almost 
he  believed  what  she  said.  In  this  little  garden, 
the  air  of  which  was  quick  with  the  smell  of  growing 
plants,  of  spring  flowers,  of  violets,  of  gentle  creatures 
occupied  with  the  business  of  living,  he  might  rest 


THE   HAUNTING  265 

his  spirit.  With  nothing  to  remind  him  of  the  haunt, 
with  all  around  ignorant  of  its  existence,  he  might 
forget  it.  Taking  it  to  be  a  toadstool  of  the  mind, 
his  forgetting  would  mean  he  had  trodden  it  under- 
foot, that  it  would  not  trouble  him  again. 

He  would  turn  his  thoughts  away  from  it,  listen 
to  what  Morwenna,  his  hand  warm  between  hers, 
was  saying. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  know  what  love  is." 

He  smiled,  that  half-smile  that  the  moustache 
hides,  and  Morwenna's  eyes  narrowed  in  under- 
standing. The  dear  of'n,  to  think  he  knew  !  His 
thoughts  were  plain  as  print — she  could  have  hugged 
the  boy  in  him,  the  boy  that  was  so  wise  and  experi- 
enced !  That  he  should  be  pleased  with  himself 
and  his  little  courtings,  the  courtings  that  had  nothing 
to  do  with  love. 

"  Men  don't  love,"  she  said,  her  soft  voice  seeming 
to  rise  in  spirals  through  the  dusk,  and  again  Gale 
smiled.  Not  love  ?  That  burning  sweetness,  a 
craving  more  imperative  than  any  other,  and  the 
satisfying  of  which  gave  you  supreme  happiness  ! 
A  simple  thing,  clean,  clear,  flaming  !  A  thing  of  the 
body,  but  which  yet  gathered  in  the  personality  ! 
Not  love,  he  ? 

"  Men — they  go  courtin',"  pursued  the  soft  voice, 
"  they  are  head  over  ears  for  the  time,  helpin'  you 
over  all  the  stiles,  and  so  careful  over  you ;  but 
after  you  are  married,  it  is  '  Take  and  get  over  your- 
self.' They  do  their  lovin'  with  the  body — for  what 
they  can  get,  and  after  that,  they'm  tired." 

Why,  yes,  of  course.  Love  was  passion,  and  passion 
was  episodic.  She  had  hit  the  nail  on  the  head. 
Tired — a  man  grew  tired 


266  THE  HAUNTING 

"There's  more  to  lovin'  than  that."  They  had 
the  evening,  the  rest  of  life  in  which  to  talk  ;  no  need 
for  any  sort  of  haste.  "  I  know  there  is.  I've  a-got 
to  see  that,  since  you  turned  me  off." 

"  No  need  to  think  of  that  now."  His  arm  went 
round  her  shoulders.  He  could  not  have  come  a 
day  sooner  .  .  .  even  now  .  .  . 

She  tried  to  reassure  him.  "  It  isn't  that,  then, 
for  Gale,  I  see  things  in  a  different  light  these  days 
and  I  don't  care  if  I  am  old  ;  no,  nor  if  I  ain't  'ansome 
any  more.  My  feelings  for  you  have  gone  behind 
that,  deep  down  into  my  heart.  It  wouldn't  make 
a  bit  of  difference  whether  you  stayed  away,  or 
whether  you  came  back,  I  should  go  on  loving  you 
all  the  time.  Whatever  you  did,  whether  'twas 
black  as  night,  would  not  trouble  me — not  the 
awfullest  things  in  the  world  !  For  you  have  got 
my  heart,  and  I  should  not  think  no  more  about 
what  you  done,  shouldn't  blame  you,  nor  worry." 

Almost,  he  could  have  trusted  her. 

"  Your  face  is  butivul  to  me,  but  if  I  never  cast 
eyes  on  it  any  moor,  I  should  go  on  lovin'  it  through 
daylight  and  dark  till  I  was  put'n  under  the  turf, 
ay — and  after.  Do  'ee  see,  dear,  for  good  or  for  bad, 
you  are  all  the  world  to  me.  If  you  was  to  'buse 
me,  or  'eave  me  to  doors,  or  make  a  mock  of  me  in 
my  own  town,  'twould  be  all  the  same  to  me,  and 
that — well,  that  is  what  I  do  call  love." 

Her  voice  died  away,  and  silence,  a  lining  to  the 
cloak  of  night,  folded  them  close.  His  arm  had 
drawn  her  near,  and  the  long  kiss  he  gave,  her  expressed 
him  better  than  words.  She  felt  in  it  the  possibility 
of  a  devotion  less  passionate  but  more  serious  than 
lovers'  love. 


THE  HAUNTING  267 

"  I,  too,  have  been  ill,"  he  said.  "  And  now 
I  want  just  what  you  have  been  talking  of.  If  you 
give  it  me,  I  shall  get  well  again." 

"  'Tis  yours,  love,  for  the  takinV 

He  had  come  to  her  in  some  way  broken,  and  she 
was  to  do  the  healing.  She  was  not  curious — or  not 
very — but  she  did  wish  she  knew  the  how  and  when 
and  why.  Still — care,  patience,  delicacy  of  handling, 
and  in  time  he  would  be  whole  again.  "  And  then," 
she  murmured,  almost  to  herself,  "  then  you  will 
love  me." 

Under  the  influence  of  the  night  and  her  warm 
love,  he  was  growing  cheerful.  "  If  I  don't,  what 
has  brought  me  here  ?  " 

"  Dunno  for  sure,  but  'twadn't  love." 

"  I  care  more  for  you  than  for  anybody  I've  ever 
seen." 

Her  voice  was  tranquil,  reconciled.  "  It'll  come. 
It  is  bound  to  come.  'Tisn't  for  nothing  you've 
been  Good  Samaritan  to  the  people  all  around. 
You've  a  heart 

"Well,  I  was  fond  of  Pascoe." 

Something  in  the  tone  made  her  feel  it  would  be 

safe  to  let  him  see  what  she  thought  of  that  one. 

'  You   put   your   affections   on   him   like   they  put 

clothes  on  a  dummy.     You'd  nothing  else,  then." 

His  mind  grasped  at  the  explanation.  That  was 
it.  He  had  needed  to  love  someone,  and  Pascoe  had 
been  there.  That  love — not  the  flaming  of  the  body 
—but  devotion  was  what  Morwenna  offered,  what 
she  was  seeking  to  arouse. 

His    heart,    moved    to    tenderness,    grew    vocal. 

'  You,"   he   said   softly,    "  you   believed   I   minded 

because  your  hair  is  grey  and  your  face  a  bit  wrinkled. 


268  THE   HAUNTING 

I  was  a  liar,  a  '  bigger  liar'n  Tom  Pepper,'  dear. 
'Tis  something  in  you  that  draws  me.  All  the  rest 
is  wrapped  round  that  something,  and  does  not 
really  count  ;  but  the  something — 

She  nestled  closer.  "  Yes,  sure  Gale,  and  the 
something  ?  " 

"  The  something  is  you." 


IV 

Gale  had  come  to  Morwenna  much,  she  thought, 
as  he  must  have  come  long  ago  to  his  mother.  He 
had  not  with  him  so  much  as  a  nightshirt  !  Not 
that  it  mattered.  She  had  some — old,  clean,  and 
neatly  mended,  that  her  sons  had  left  with  her ; 
but  there  were  other  necessary  garments.  "  Perhaps 
you  would  go  in  to-morrow  and  get  them  ?  " 

The  look  which,  she  had  already  learnt,  was  in 
some  way  connected  with  his  troubles,  came  to  the 
surface.  "  No  !  no  !  "  he  said. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  rather  buy  new  ones  ?  " 

He  caught  at  the  suggestion.  "  We  are  beginning 
afresh,  we  will  have  everything  new." 

She  perceived  that  he  did  not  want  to  go  back, 
not  for  any  of  his  things.  Very  well,  she  would  see 
what  she  had  put  away.  He  must  not  be  worried. 
That  was  not  the  way  to  get  him  better.  The  poor 
dear,  how  thin  he  was  !  Ah — milk  !  It  was  getting 
late.  She  would  heat  him  a  cup  of  milk,  and  he 
should  drink  it  last  thing  before  going  to  bed. 
"  Dear,"  she  said,  with  a  little  thrill  that  burned 
through  her,  "  will  you  lock  the  front  door  ?  " 

He  went  obediently.  "  The  key  won't  turn," 
he  called  back. 


THE   HAUNTING  269 

"  Lock  wants  oiling,  I  expect." 
"  But  you  lock  up  every  night,   don't  you  ?  " 
She  put  down  the  saucepan  she  was  holding  over 
the  embers,  and  went  to  him.     In  the  dark,  by  the 
door,  she  would  be  able  to  tell  him  why  that  key 
had  rusted  in  the  lock. 


You  ought  to  know,  by  a  sort  of  love-instinct,  how 
many  pillows  the  beloved  required  for  his  comfort, 
but  you  did  not,  you  had  to  ask.  His  little  ways, 
many  of  them,  were  new  to  you,  as  new  as  if  he  had 
been  a  stranger. 

Morwenna,  after  giving  Gale  the  cup  of  hot  milk, 
had  gone  up  to  bed.  When  he  had  drunk  it,  he  might 
come. 

"  I  don't  sleep  well,"  he  had  told  her. 

"  Would  you  rather  I  made  you  up  a  bed  here  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  sleep  at  all  then." 

Except  for  the  silks  and  satins  and  velvets  of  the 
quilt,  the  bedroom  was  neat  and  chilly  white  ;  but 
Morwenna  went  about  her  undressing  with  a  prescient 
smile.  She  was  seeing,  not  the  orderly  arrangements, 
but  an  untidiness  of  added  objects.  Before  long, 
her  looking-glass  would  have  braces  hanging  from 
one  supporter,  and  a  strop  from  the  other.  Over  the 
marcella  cloth  would  be  spread  the  contents  of  a 
man's  pockets  ;  and  his  clothes  would  lie  in  a  loose 
heap  on  the  chair.  Gale's  traade  !  It  was  to  her 
as  if  a  lime-washed  wall  were  about  to  be  hung  with 
pictures. 

She  was  absolutely  happy. 

Ah,  yes,  but  shy — rather.     Such  nonsense  to  be 


270  THE   HAUNTING 

shy.  She  had  been  married  before.  Not  that  she 
remembered,  time  had  washed  her  clean  of  memories, 
had  made  her  new.  Ten  years  between  then  and 
now — but  it  was  not  the  years,  it  was  that  she  had 
not  known,  no,  never,  what  love  was. 

Downstairs,  he  was  moving  about,  taking  off  his 
boots.  She  got  into  bed,  and  lay,  listening.  Through 
her  ran  little  waves  of  warmth.  His  step  on  the 
stair — that  step  !  She  was  too  happy,  she  was 
fainting  under  her  happiness. 

He  took  his  coming  as  a  matter  of  course,  as  a 
cheering  fact  that  was  almost  a  joke.  "  Never 
slept  with  a  woman  in  my  life,"  he  said  looking  at 
her  with  dancing  quizzical  eyes,  before  which  her 
lids  fell. 

"  But  you — there  was 

He  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "  Don't 
you  believe  all  you  hear.  Stowe  is  an  awful  place 
for  gossip." 

She  could  not  look  at  him,  but  she  clung,  encouraged, 
to  her  point.  "  You  old  rogue,  you.  Think  I  been 
livin'  so  near  and  haven't  seen  ?  Take  your  tarra- 
diddles  to  Bodmin,  there  is  no  market  for  them  here." 

He  gave  in  to  her  with  a  laugh,  and  she  listened 
to  it  with  a  heart  that  seemed  to  turn  over.  His 
laugh  !  The  laugh  with  a  catch  in  it,  the  laugh  she 
had  not  hoped  to  hear  again  !  Oh,  that  laugh. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  "  at  least  I  never  slept  with 
any  of  them.  You  can  bake  that  in  your  cake." 

In  some  ways,  the  ways  that  were  of  most  import- 
ance, she  was  to  be  first  with  him.  Those  transient 
passions  had  not  given  him  the  domestic  sharing 
of  board,  of  bed.  Those  intimacies,  they  had  not 
meant  sharing  a  home.  He  was  come  new  to  her,  as 


THE  HAUNTING  271 

she  to  him.  "  You—  "  she  was  too  much  thrilled 
to  utter  clearly  her  thought.  "  I  wonder  if  you 
will  like  it." 

"  Like  what,  my  dear  ?  " 

He  was  a  tease.     "  Like  sleeping  with  anyone." 

"  I  shall  like  it  all  right."  He  got  up,  went 
over  to  the  dressing  table,  began  to  empty  his 
pockets. 

Morwenna,  high  against  hei  three  pillows,  watched. 
His  coat  came  off.  Not  the  first  time  she  had  seen 
him  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  When  she  had  needed 
help  with  the  bales  and  packages,  he  had  lent  her 
a  man's  strength.  Standing  back,  she  had  watched 
the  play  of  his  shoulders,  the  ripple  of  muscle,  had 
admired  the  beautiful  poise  of  him.  She  had  looked 
on  and  longed,  but  not  hoped,  no,  she  had  only 
thought  how  wonderful  it  would  be  if  he  ever  turned 
to  her. 

Even  now,  it  was  almost  impossible  to  believe 
that  she  was  not  dreaming,  that  he,  her  lovely  man, 
was  actually  there  in  her  room. 

Worshipping,  she  hardly  dared  to  look  at  him. 

The  shirt,  a  white  gleam,  was  yet  old  and 
worn.  It  needed  a  patch  across  the  shoulders.  The 
dear  had  never  had  a  woman  to  make  and  darn  for 
him,  and  he  was  all  to  larrups.  She  lost  herself  in 
a  dream.  Ah,  the  hours,  the  blessed  hours  that 
she  would  spend,  setting  stitch  after  stitch  in  his 
belongings — sewing  love  into  them. 

He  pulled  the  shirt  forward  over  his  crisp  hair, 
and  she  saw  his  shoulders,  his  deep  chest. 

She  forgot  that  such  things  as  shirts,  as  loving 
service  existed.  She  was  swept  forward  on  a  tide 
of  humble  adoration.  She  had  stood  in  the  outer 


272  THE  HAUNTING 

courts,  now  the  door  of  the  sanctuary  was  opening, 
that  of  the  shrine  itself. 

She  lost  her  breath,  looking,  worshipping. 

VI 

He  slept  before  she  did,slept  uneasily,  but  still  he  slept. 

She  was  content  to  lie  beside  him,  take  into  her 
spirit  the  fact  of  his  nearness,  listen  to  the  soft, 
regular  breathing.  She  was  more  than  content. 

Her  head  was  against  his  shoulder,  his  chest  rose 
and  fell  under  her  arm,  his  feet  went  down  beyond 
hers,  into  the  depths  of  the  bed.  In  spite  of  being 
so  tall,  so  strong,  he  was  helpless  as  a  babe.  It  felt 
good  to  be  awake  while  he,  trusting  her,  slept  ;  to 
lie  beside  him,  guarding  him  from  evil. 

She  knew  that  she  would  die  sooner  than  that 
any  hurtful  presence  should  come  nigh  him.  Die  ! 
It  would  be  easy  now,  for  he  was  hers,  her  man. 
Her  heart  had  its  satisfaction,  and  that,  none,  not 
even  God,  could  take  away.  Gale  was  her  man, 
and  she  his  woman. 

She  was  glad  the  night  was  not  to  be  wasted  in 
sleep.  She  wanted  to  lie  and  brood  over  her  happi- 
ness, re-live  what  had  happened,  realize  her  lover's 
presence.  This  was  high  water — no,  there  would 
be  many  such  tides.  Every  night  and  all  would  be 
spent  with  him. 

The  days  would  be  for  working  in,  working  for 
him  ;  the  nights  for  the  quiet  thinking,  the  acknow- 
ledging that  she  loved  him  ;  they  would  be  for  the 
feel  of  his  arms  about  her,  as  she  drifted — unwilling 
to  lose  a  moment  of  her  happiness — drifted  away. 

She  lay  still,  conscious  only  of  the  rise  and  fall 
of  his  deep  chest — lay  there,  living  her  moment. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


LOVEDAY  POLLARD,  of  the  Ring  o'  Bells,  at  St. 
Columb,  knowing  Mr.  Corlyon  well,  approved  her 
sister's  marriage.  Very  suitable.  She  and  her 
husband  would  come  over  for  the  wedding,  and 
Morwenna  need  not  get  in  any  wine,  they  would 
see  to  that. 

Gale  had  accompanied  Morwenna  when  she  went 
to  give  in  the  banns.  Marriage,  as  an  institution, 
worked  for  the  good  of  the  tribe.  The  indissolubility 
of  it  gave  each  new  generation  a  chance  to  grow  in 
garden  earth,  behind  a  protecting  fence.  He  thought 
it  like  the  priesthood  to  have  laid  hands  on  it,  to 
have  made  the  tribal  recognition  into  a  hard  and 
fast  law.  For  him,  the  ceremonial,  the  undertaking 
to  do  this  and  that,  were  unnecessary,  but  Morwenna 
did  not  agree  with  him. 

"  Gettin'  married  is  like  putting  the  dough  into 
the  oven.  It  comes  out  bread.  It  won't  never  be 
just  yeast  and  flour  again." 

'  You're  my  woman,  sure  enough,  but  it  isn't  the 
going  to  church  has  made  you  that,"  and  his  eye 
was  quizzical. 

Though   she   glowed   under   his   look,   behind   the 

physical  answer  lay  another.    The  fire  and  sweetness 

were  too  intense,  however,  to  get  that  other  spoken. 

'Till   I'm  putt'n  under  turf  I'm  your  woman, 

273 


274  .     THE  HAUNTING 

and — and  afterwards.  Gettin'  married  make  me 
look  on  to  that,  to  when  we'm  gone." 

He  mocked  a  little,  tenderly.  "  You  won't  like 
it,"  said  he,  kissing  her  throat,  "  when  you've  done 
with  all  this." 

"  I  won't,  no,  indeed.  Every  kiss  I  have  of  'ee 
go  through  me  like  a  knife.  I  do  feel  as  if  I'll  die 
with  the  joy  of  it.  I  want  no  more  than  to  go  on 
livin'  here  with  'ee."_  She  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  Oh, 
my  tender  life  and  sawl,  I  be  too  happy." 

He  smiled  at  her.     "  We've  many  a  year  yet.'* 

But  she  said  again,  "  I  be  too  happy." 

"  Well,  well." 

"  That  is  why  I  want  to  go  to  church  with  'ee, 
and  kneel  down — you  and  me — 

"  But  old  Stokoe —  "  He  thought  of  the  rector's 
unimpressive  figure,  the  choked  gobble  of  his  voice. 

"  Aw,  'tedn't  him,  Gale,  'tes  behind  him.  I  dunno. 
I  can't  tell  'ee.  'Tes  only  what  I  do  feel." 

He  was  cupping  her  chin  in  his  long  hand,  was 
reflecting  idly  on  the  curve  of  the  jaw.  Presently, 
he  would  bend  to  the  lips,  speaking  so  eagerly,  that 
crumple  of  soft  lips,  flowering,  folding.  He  would 
change  eagerness  into  warmth. 

"  I  can't  think  as  we  stop  under  turf.  Them  eyes 
of  your'n.  Bright  as  stars,  but  there's  things  as  they 
can't  see.  Why,  times  out  of  number,  when  I  been 
settin'  here,  mindin'  the  shop,  and  there's  been  nobody 
in,  I've  seen  you.  You  in  the  Brown  House,  and 
me  here,  but  I've  seen  'ee  plain  as  print." 

The  explanation  came  without  his  looking  for  it. 
"  You  imagined  you  saw  me." 

"  One  day,  you  had  on  a  coat  I  had  never  set  eyes 
on.  Grey  'twas,  and  your  fancy  being  blue,  I  couldn't 


THE   HAUNTING  275 

believe  I  saw  it.  But  when  you  came  in  that  Thursday 
you  had  it  on." 

He  turned  the  matter  over.  Morwenna  was  sincere. 
She  spoke  according  to  her  belief.  His  doubts  then 
must  be  for  the  reality  of  her  visions.  He  considered 
her  temperament.  Not  highly  credulous.  Her 
religion  was  a  matter  of  accepted  belief,  not  of  ex- 
perience. "  You  thought  you  saw  that  tweed  suit, 
but  I  must  have  told  you  I  was  getting  it,  or  Honey 
told  you  that  he  was  making  it  for  me." 

"  No,  nor  you  didn't,  nor  he  didn't,  and  when  I 
see  you  that  time,  and  see  your  arm  in  a  grey  sleeve, 
I  thought  I  was  mistook.  But  I  wasn't." 

"  But  how  ?  I  don't  quite  get  you."  Queer 
things  at  Quayside,  and  now  queer  things  here. 
Perhaps,  under  the  surface  of  life,  queer  things 
everywhere,  and  he  awakening  to  them  by  degrees. 
He  wanted  to  understand.  He  wondered  whether, 
perhaps,  these  mysterious  things  were  not  beyond 
his  grasp  .  .  .  whether  mankind  had  not  some  way 
to  go  before,  like  a  mouse  nibbling  at  a  cake,  it  could 
get  through  the  crust,  the  outer  crust  of  knowledge. 
The  attitude  of  stuffy  people  was  "  best  not  to  know 
too  much."  Having  no  imagination,  they  could  not 
see  the  riches  that  lay  behind  the  hard  crust.  But 
he,  very  decidedly,  he  wanted  to  know. 

Morwenna's  eyes  expressed  the  difficulty  she  had 
in  explaining.  "  Lovin'  'ee,  I  did  want  to  be  with 
'ee,  and  sometimes  I  was." 

"  But  how  ?  " 

"  Well,  'twas  dark  and  quiet  in  here,  and  the  body 
of  me  stayed — there,"  she  indicated  the  Windsor 
chair,  "  and  the  other  bit  of  me  went  to  you." 

The  conclusion  she  could  not  put  into  words  was 


276  THE  HAUNTING 

plain.      "  You   think   the   other   bit   of  you   would 

be  alive,  even  if  your  body  was  under  turf  ?     That 

other  bit- 
Was  there  really  a  part  of  her,  of  himself,  that 

could  function  apart  from  the  body  ?    The  grey  sleeve 

that  she  had  seen — how  could  she  have  seen  it  ? 

She  could  not  unless  what  she  said  were  true,  had 

actually  happened. 

He  must  believe  that  she  thought  she  had  seen  it, 

and  that  the  seeing  of  it  had  convinced  her. 

A  projection  of  herself,    a    discarnate    projection. 

He  held  the  thought   in   his   mind,   considering  it. 

"  I  wonder." 


ii 

"I  be  too  happy,"  Morwenna  had  said,  and  it 
was  true — at  times. 

When  Gale  smiled  at  her,  when  his  hand  touched 
her,  when  he  grew  prodigal  of  kisses,  her  spirit  swooned 
under  its  rich  weight  of  joy.  After  the  years  of 
hopeless  quiet — this.  She  looked  back  at  days  lived 
in  a  sort  of  half-light.  All  round  her  people  who 
thought  themselves  alive,  whose  interests  lay  in 
pounds  and  pence,  in  a  streak  of  damp  on  the  wall, 
or  a  new  bonnet  for  chapel.  She,  too,  had  lived  a 
poverty-stricken  life  of  shallow  hopes,  a  life  that 
had  left  her  memories,  thin  as  dried  leaves  ;  but 
now,  oh,  now  life  was  as  wonderful  and  unexpected 
as  a  lucky  bag. 

Not  every  parcel,  though,  held  a  prize. 

Gale  was  worried,  kept  it  to  himself  he  did,  but 
she  knew  ;  and  'twas  the  worry  hurried  him  up. 
She  wanted  him  to  see  doctor,  but  he  said  there 


THE   HAUNTING  277 

was  nothing  the  matter  that  sun  and  dryth  and  the 
oncoming  summer  would  not  cure. 

"  And  you- 

She  ?  But  she  was  not  an  Elizabeth  Brenton. 
That  one,  now,  a  healer  for  sure.  "  I  can't  put  meat 
on  your  bones  and  quiet  in  your  mind." 

"  You  can,  for  you  do." 

He  was  thinking  of  a  ring  he  had  once  seen.  Brass, 
it  jutted  from  an  old  door,  jutted,  so  that  a  man 
seeking  sanctuary,  fleeing  from  his  enemies,  might 
clutch  it  easily.  His  hand  once  on  it,  he  would  be 
safe. 

A  brass  ring,  glittering  in  the  sun. 

The  one  in  his  pocket  was  of  gold  and  thin,  an  old 
ring.  He  took  it  out,  detached  it  from  the  swivel 
of  his  chain.  "  My  mother's." 

"  I  warn  your  mother  loved  the  father  of  'ee," 
Morwenna  said.  Love  must  have  gone  to  the  framing 
of  him.  In  the  Brown  House  was  a  print — she  had 
seen  it  in  years  gone  by — of  the  grand  place  that 
had  been  Mrs.  Corlyon's  home,  the  place  from  which 
she  had  fled  with  Handsome  Tom.  She  had  loved 
him  more  than  the  things  of  this  world.  She  had 
loved  him — it  seemed  impossible  that — as  Morwenna 
loved  Gale. 

"  Take  off  that  other  ring." 

Up  till  then,  she  had  worn  Peter's.  It  meant  to 
her  not  Peter,  but  Tristram,  Edgar,  and  Jenifer. 
Obediently,  she  pulled  it  from  her  finger.  Her  children 
were  grown  up  and  had  left  her,  she  had  only  Gale. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  and  kissed  the  plump  hand  with 
its  pointed  fingers,  fingers  with  a  sure  light  clip 
and  grasp. 

"  Be  I  to  wear  your  mother's  ring  ?  " 


278  THE   HAUNTING 

"  '  With  this  ring  I  thee  wed.'  " 

A  lovely  thought  of  his  to  have  given  her  this 
ring  which  had  already  circled  both  joy  and  sorrow. 
Death  had  parted  the  wearer  from  her  lover,  had 
re-united  them.  Love,  death ;  but  she  believed  in 
a  love  after  death.  To  love  such  as  hers,  nor  man  nor 
even  poor  cold  God,  away  there  in  the  empty  skies, 
and  ignorant  of  love,  could  put  an  end. 


in 

Was  there  anything  in  Morwenna's  reasoning  ? 
A  breeding-ground  this  earth,  a  nursery  for  young 
shoots  of  life.  The  young  shoot  transplanted,  set 
in  the  soil  of  other  planets  might  develop  beyond 
imagination  ;  the  present  stretch  of  human  endeavour 
might  be  to  that  development  as  green  grass  to  an 
oak — might !  Yes,  but  you  could  not  accept  theories 
of  which  there  was  no  proof  as  facts. 

Theories,  Gale  had  been  living  among  theories, 
theories  and  shadows. 

If  Pascoe,  being  dead,  yet  lived,  it  was  in  order 
to  do  harm,  and  surely  a  better  fate  than  some  sort 
of  demoniac  existence  awaited  the  soul  ?  Why, 
though,  should  Gale  imagine  a  world  of  good  beings, 
of  angels  ?  Good  and  bad  here,  good  and  bad  there. 

Of  that,  if  he  could  agree  that  Pascoe  yet  lived,  he 
had  proof. 

Whether  or  no  he  lived,  the  hatred  he  had  felt 
was  still  reaching  after  Gale.  He  was  always  conscious 
of  it  ;  yes,  even  here,  in  Morwenna's  kitchen. 

It  pulled  at  him,  sometimes  it  more  than  pulled. 
He  saw,  not  the  chairs  and  table,  the  rug  at  his  feet, 
but 


THE  HAUNTING  279 

Darkness  invaded  his  mind  and,  in  the  midst  of 
the  night  he  would  become  aware  of  a  gleam,  not 
a  gleam  of  light,  but  of  phosphorescence.  Something 
would  begin  to  move — figures,  phosphorescent 
figures. 

He  was,  perhaps,  remembering. 

Of  that  he  could  not  be  certain.  What  was  of 
more  importance  was  that  he  did  not  know  when 
the  darkness  would  invade  his  consciousness. 
Suddenly,  like  a  loosed  curtain,  it  would  fall,  and 
blot  out  the  day. 

When  he  came  out  of  it,  it  was  to  find  that  the 
lapse  of  time  had,  sometimes,  been  considerable. 

He  had  not  known  what  was  happening  about 
him,  who  came  and  went. 

A  time  between  times.  A  space  of  minutes  during 
which — yes,  it  was  a  sort  of  unconsciousness — 
he  was  at  the  mercy  of  events.  How  if  Morwenna, 
who  never  intruded  on  his  silences  were,  one  day,  to 
be  absent  when  the  curtain  fell  ?  How  if  others — 
strangers — were  to  come  in  ? 

They  would  think  him  mad. 

"If  I  were — er — lost  in  thought,"  he  warned, 
"  you  would  not  trot  off  on  some  business  of  your 
own  ?  I  mean  you  would  not  leave  me  ?  " 

She  hastened  to  reassure  him.  Always  thinking  he 
was,  thinking  about  the  something  of  which  he  could 
not,  or  would  not,  speak.  "Leave  you,  Gale,  why  it 
makes  me  happy  to  be  with  you." 

"  You  wouldn't  think  I  wanted  to  be  by  myself  ?  " 

"  Now  you  have  told  me,  I  never  will." 

"  We'll  be  married  soon."  He  heaved  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction.  "  That'll  tie  you  to  me  for  good  and 
.all.  Are  you  willing,  Morwenna?" 


280  THE  HAUNTING 

"  Oh,  love,  of  course  I'm  willin',  I'm  more  than 
willin'." 


IV 

The  seedlings  in  Morwenna's  garden  were  as  great 
a  joy  to  Gale  as  to  her.  He  spent  most  of  his  day 
weeding,  destroying  slugs,  raking  ;  and  in  the  warm 
showery  weather  the  young  things  grew  with  gladden- 
ing haste  and  vigour.  Lettuce,  onion,  and  a  border 
of  sweetness,  a  border  between  the  bushes  and  the 
flagged  path.  Every  morning,  he  went  with  Mor- 
wenna  to  see  what  had  happened  during  the  night ; 
every  evening  he  took  into  the  house  the  picture 
of  the  dim  paths  with,  on  either  si(Je  of  them,  the 
plants,  the  spread  of  brown  mould.  The  garden 
exercised  on  him  a  spell.  Not  once  when  he  was 
digging  did  the  curtain  fall  between  him  and  it. 

It  fell  when  he  went  into  the  dark  of  the  house. 
It  fell  when  he  was  sitting  quiet  in  the  dusk. 

He  surprised  Morwenna  by  his  craving  for  light. 
Her  thrifty  soul  gave  the  extra  lamp,  the  night-light 
in  a  saucer,  and  gave  without  grudging,  but  she 
wondered. 

Was  it  part  of  his  illness,  or  was  it  possible  that 
he  was  afraid  of  something  ? 

He  never,  by  any  chance,  spoke  of  the  Brown  House, 
would  not  let  her.  Had  something  down  there  got 
on  his  nerves  ?  Would  it  help  if  he  were  further 
away  ? 

"  I  s'pose  you  would  not  like  to  try  farmin'.  There's 
Carnrose,  and  'twill  be  empty  at  Michaelmas." 

"  Carnrose  ?  " 

"  The  farm  my  father  left  me." 


THE  HAUNTING  281 

The  dear  woman  was  offering  him  his  heart's  desire. 
Always  his  dream  to  rent  a  few  fields  and  till  them. 
Carnrose  ?  He  knew  the  farm,  inland,  but  not  too 
far,  and  a  sizeable  sort  of  place.  One  hind  would 
be  enough  to  run  it,  and  there  was  Nicolle  eating 
his  heart  out  in  Stowe,  he'd  come.  Corlyon  saw  himself 
in  cords  and  gaiters,  a  proper  farmer,  saw  Morwenna 
making  butter,  brewing,  saltin'  in. 

But — Pascoe. 

Surely  having  left  the  house  on  Quayside,  Gale 
might  take  this  further  step.  Surely — 

Leave  the  haunt  to  its  own  devices  ? 

What  was  it  doing  at  this  moment  ?  He  got  up, 
went  to  the  door.  No,  he  would  not  look.  As  long 
as  he  did  not  think  of  the  apparitions  they  were  not 
there.  He  came  back  to  Morwenna,  put  an  arm 
round  her,  held  her  as  if  anxious  to  be  assured  of 
her  flesh  and  blood  reality.  "  Farming  ?  No,  I 
don't  think  I  should  like  it." 

Yet,  times  out  of  number,  he  had  told  her  he  hoped 
to  spend  his  old  age  on  the  land.  Fear,  a  fear  of 
something  beyond  her  grasp,  stabbed.  "  Then  we 
must  poddle  along  as  we  are." 


Not  until  Gale  had  been  with  her  ten  days  did 
Morwenna  admit  to  herself  that  he  was  not  gaining 
ground.  During  the  first  week,  in  spite  of  his  lack 
of  appetite  and  broken  rest,  he  had  seemed  comfortable 
in  himself,  on  the  mend.  He  had  talked  and  laughed 
with  her,  had  been  like  a  boy  out  of  school.  Splendid 
company  he  was. 

It  had  not  lasted.     He  was  growing  daily  more 


282  THE  HAUNTING 

absent-minded.  When  he  came  out  of  a  brooding 
silence  he  seemed  to  leave  behind  a  part  of  himself. 
Also,  he  looked  ill.  His  skin  was  losing  its  pale 
clarity,  his  eyes  were  bloodshot,  his  expression- 
she  knew  that  the  alteration  in  his  expression  was  of 
more  importance  than  the  lines  and  the  troubled 
look.  It  portended — what  ? 

Sometimes,  when  she  was  sitting  beside  him  with 
her  hand  between  his,  he  forgot  that  she  was  there. 

Every  morning  she  woke  to  an  eager  hope  that  he 
would  be  better,  more  his  old  self.  Day-long  she 
watched,  still  hoping,  and  at  night,  while  he  tossed 
and  muttered,  she  lifted  her  heart  in  prayer. 

His  safety,  his  health,  his  sanity  ! 


VI 

"  Mrs.  Liddicoat  !  "  A  voice  was  hailing  them 
from  the  street.  Supper  being  over,  Morwenna  was 
stacking  the  cloam  on  a  tray. 

"  It  will  be  Rebecca  French  with  my  share  of  the 
week's  takings."  She  opened  the  kitchen  door,  let 
the  warmth  and  light  flow  through  the  intervening 
room,  the  room  that  was  to  have  been  Gale's  office. 
"  Come  along  in,  and  set  down." 

"  I  want  to  pay  you  what  I  do  owe  you."  She 
came  blinking  out  of  the  night.  A  lamp  on  the  table, 
candles  on  the  mantel-board,  and  they  courting  ? 
"  Evenin',  Mr.  Corlyon." 

Though  Gale,  from  his  seat  on  the  sofa,  made 
courteous  reply,  her  coming  was  unwelcome.  Even 
when  he  had  Morwenna's  full  attention,  it  was 
difficult  to  keep  his  thoughts  fixed  on  her,  prevent 
them  from  straying  down  the  street. 


THE  HAUNTING  283 

The  kitchen  in  which  he  sat  grew  dim.  He  was 
seeing  a  room  in  the  Brown  House.  Locked  doors 
and  shuttered  windows  and  darkness,  yet  he  saw 
the  room  more  clearly  than  that  in  which  he  was 
sitting.  How  long  would  a  turned  key,  a  hasped 
window  suffice  to  wall  in  the  shadowy  occupants 
of  that  room  ?  The  time  was  coming — he  felt  it 
creeping  towards  him  ...  a  black  point  in  space  .  .  . 
Whenever  he  looked,  it  was  appreciably  nearer. 
The  time  was  coming  when  the  shadows,  jigging  in 
that  confined  space,  would  break  through  ;  when 
the  walls  would  be  as  mist,  and  the  shadows  as  strong 
men. 

He  must  not  think  of  the  future,  of  what  would 
be.  Morwenna  ...  he  must  hold  on  to  her,  lose 
himself  in  her  love,  in  that  long,  swooning  glance. 

"  How  be  gettin'  on  with  your  shop  ?  " 

Rebecca  liked  to  hear  it  spoken  of  as  "  her  "  shop. 
Ringlets  swinging,  she  drew  up  to  the  cleared  table, 
and  opening  her  purse,  took  out  a  piece  of  gold  and 
some  silver.  "  Not  so  very  dusty."  She  had  sold 
so  many  yards  of  frilling,  so  much  muslin  for  robes, 
embroidery  for  trimming.  So  much  left,  and  Mor- 
wenna's  share  would  be 

Under  the  business  chatter  lay  her  preoccupation 
with  the  amazing  couple.  It  did  not  seem  very  right 
for  Mr.  Corlyon  to  come  and  live  there  before  they 
were  married  and  she  was  surprised  at  him.  But 
there,  men  did  not  think  nor  they  did  not  trouble. 
Made  you  glad  you  hadn't  got  none  to  trouble  you. 

People  had  told  her  he  was  looking  whisht  and, 
dear  life,  so  he  was.  Would  not,  hardly,  have  known 
him.  Gone  all  to  pieces. 

She  counted  the  money  into  Morwenna's  hand  ;  and 


284  THE  HAUNTING 

Mr.  Corlyon,  rousing  from  his  abstraction,  prepared 
to  make  out  a  receipt.  But,  no.  "  Then  that  will 
be  all  right,"  Morwenna  said.  "  We  know  how  each 
other  stand  and  I  shall  be  seeing  you  again  on  Mon- 
day." 

He  wondered  if  this  way  of  doing  business  answered. 
Men  put  black  upon  white,  but  women  depended  upon 
words  and  the  character  behind  the  words.  To  do 
so  must  quicken  the  faculties,  for  unless  you  were 
able  to  size  up  the  people  with  whom  you  were  dealing 
you  would  lose. 

Morwenna  went  with  the  other  to  the  street  door, 
and  stood  there  for  a  moment,  hoping.  Perhaps 
Rebecca,  who  was  so  cute,  would  guess  what  she 
wanted. 

"  Well  ?  "  The  other  smiled  to  herself.  "  Driven 
your  pigs  to  a  braave  market,  'aven't  'ee  ?  " 

"  Don't  mind  for  that." 

"  At  your  time  of  life  to  be  scandling  the  parish." 

"  Parish  might  find  something  better  to  do  than  go 
scandling  about  me  ;  I  am  old  enough  to  look  after 
myself." 

"  Of  course  you'll  do  as  you've  a  mind  to.  Always 
have  and,  I  suppose,  always  will."  * 

"  Becky  ..."  It  did  not  matter  what  Rebecca 
said  as  long  as  she  would  talk  things  over.  To  go  on, 
with  your  fears  shut  up  inside — to  feel  there  might 
be  something  to  be  done  if  you  only  knew  what  it  was 
• — she  could  not  stand  it  any  longer  !  "  Mr.  Corlyon 
don'  seem  so  well  as  I  could  wish." 

Rebecca  caught  the  note  of  anxiety,  the  anxiety 
that  brought  folk  to  her  for  help.  "  You  can't 
expect  it." 

"  Not  expect  it  !     Why  ?  " 


THE   HAUNTING  285 

"  You  don't  knaw  ?  " 

Morwenna's  mind  fled  from  what  the  other  would 
have  implied.  "  I'm  doin'  all  I  can  for  him — new-laid 
eggs  and  cream  and  chicken.  If  I  could  get  him  to 
eat  as  he  belong  to,  he'd  soon  get  better." 

"  He  can't  get  better  whiles  the  wish  is  on  him." 

Morwenna's  voice  rang  out  sharply.  "  Don't  'ee 
tell  I  that." 

The  witch  shrugged  bony  shoulders.  "  Have  it 
your  own  way." 

The  other  hesitated.  The  fear  of  witchcraft  was 
in  her  blood,  and  she  must  admit  that  queer  things 
did  happen.  After  Elizabeth  Brenton  had  charmed 
the  mole  it  had  dropped  off  her  cheek,  no  denying  that. 

Gale  had  nothing  definitely  the  matter  with  him, 
and  yet  was  ill.  She  wanted  to  believe  his  getting 
better  only  a  matter  of  time,  but  under  what  she  said, 
under  what  she  thought  lay  uncertainty,  and  under  all 
a  black  terror.  The  words  and  thoughts  sailed  over 
that  black  pit.  All  day  they  went  to  and  fro  above  it, 
trying  to  forget  that  it  was  there  ;  but  at  night  in 
the  stillness,  you  had  to  admit  .  .  . 

"  Do  'ee  think "  she  said  to  Rebecca. 

"  Think  ?  "  the  little  woman's  bright  opaque  eyes — 
w^ter-washed  pebbles — were  scornful.  "  I  knaw  'tis 
true." 

And  to  Morwenna  it  seemed  so  very  likely.  Almost 
she  believed  .  .  .  quite  .  .  . 

Ill-wished  !  Who  could  have  done  it  ?  Never  had 
she  known  Gale  do  anybody  a  bad  turn.  Ah,  but 
they  might  think  he  had,  and  people  who  had  "  the 
power  "  were  easily  vexed.  So  often  it  was  a  next  to 
nothing,  such  as  Rebecca's  wrath  with  Mrs.  Maddicott 
on  account  of  her  having  baked  old  Spargo  a  loaf. 


286  THE   HAUNTING 

Yes,  they  ill- wished  you  because  they  fancied  things. 

"  But  who'd  witch'n,  Rebecca  ?  He's  loved  by 
everybody." 

"  Dunno  who  'tis,  but  I  could  find  out." 

"  I  should  be  pretty  and  glad  if  you  would."  But 
she  could  not  unless  Gale  were  willing  and  Morwenna 
knew  he  did  not  hold  with  such  things.  "  Mr. 
Corlyon  don't  altogether  believe  in  witchcraft." 

Rebecca  stepped  off  the  drexel.  "  Well,  'tisn't 
nothing  to  me.  I  didn't  offer  to  help  you  and  I 
don't  want  to,  but — he  edn't  half  the  man  he  used  to 
be." 

The  black  terror  drove  out  little  fears  and  tremors 
with  an  irresistible  sweep.  Gale  might  deride  but 
she  did  not  care.  He  must  do  what  was  best  for  him. 
"  Not  half  the  man  ?  No,  he  isn't,"  she  cried,  "  he's 
a  proper  wreck.  Nothing  but  bones  pokin'  through 
his  skin.  When  I  look  at'n  I  grieve  my  life  out, 
I  do,  but—  '  she  looked  anxiously  at  Rebecca, 
"  but  it  wouldn't  be  any  use  tellin'  him  he'd  been 
witched." 

"  Aw — leave  it  to  me." 

"  I  can  see  so  well  as  you  do  he  edn't  well  and  it 
worry  me  to  death." 

"  'Tis  so  plain  as  a  pike-staff." 

"  What's  plain,  Becky  ?  " 

"  That  he'm  witched.  Haven't  I  seem  'em  scores 
of  times  ?  Don't  sleep  well  by  night,  do  'e  ?  Seem 
to  be  hurried  up  in  his  dreams  ?  " 

"  Yes,  'tis  awful.  Cry  out  'e  do  and  make  such 
moans." 

"  And  don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  sparrow  alive  ?  " 

"  No,  that's  true.  I  coax'n  and  coax'n,  but  I 
can't  make'n  eat  scarcely  anything." 


THE   HAUNTING  287 

"  And  wastin'  flesh  daily  ?  Aw,  I  know  !  Got 
every  sign  of  it." 

"  Whoever  can  it  be  ?  "  Morwenna's  voice  was  a 
shivery  whisper. 

"  Would  you  like  for  me  to  tell  you  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  you  would.  I'd  do  anything 
to  get  him  better." 

"  Well " — the  time  seemed  to  her  ripe,  "  if  I  was 
to  show  him  who  had  witched  him 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"  What  'ud  you  give  me  ?  " 

"  If  I  could,  I'd  give  you  the  two  eyes  out  of  me 
'ead." 

"  Pretty  lot  of  USQ  they'd  be  to  me." 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Don't  want  more  than  the  old  lace  collar  and  if 
everybody  got  their  own  it  belong  to  me,  so  I'm  doing 
this,  you  might  say,  for  nothing." 

Morwenna  did  not  hesitate.  What  was  a  mere  bit 
of  decency  when  Gale's  health,  perhaps  more  than  his 
health,  hung  in  the  balance  ?  "  You  are  welcome  to 
that  one." 

"  Very  well,  then."  She  turned  back.  "  Bring  me 
down  the  little  old  looking-glass  that  hangs  to  your 
wall  and  I'll  tell'n." 

Gale,  when  Morwenna  left  him,  had  tried  to  concen- 
trate his  mind  on  the  vexed  question  of  replacing  the 
street  cobbles  with  asphalt — smooth,  dry,  lasting — 
or  with  flags  from  the  Poldinnick  quarry.  He  was  in 
favour,  he  thought,  of  the  paving-stones.  They 
would  be  cheaper,  yet  would  last  nearly  as  long.  To 
begin  with  they  might  be  tried  on  French  Street. 
He  saw  them  beautifying  the  crooked  thoroughfare, 
running  on 


288  THE  HAUNTING 

They  would  go  past  the  Brown  House,  not  past,  no. 
They  would  end  at  the  further  wall. 

He  forgot  the  paving-stones — 

"  You  have  been  a  long  time  away  !  "  He  looked 
at  Morwenna  reproachfully.  She  had  declared  she 
would  not  leave  him  to  himself ;  but  when  he  needed 
her,  the  strong  feel  of  her  hand  on  his,  she  was  not 
there. 

"  Been  tellin'  about  you,  Mr.  Corlyon,"  interposed 
Rebecca.  "  Mrs.  Liddicoat  say  you  don't  believe  in 
witchcraft." 

"  To  believe  I  must  have  proof."  He  had  risen,  a 
tall  figure  with  hair  in  which  the  grey  was  yielding 
ground,  which  would  soon  be  white  ;  and  Rebecca, 
glancing  at  the  aquiline  features,  the  brilliant  eyes 
below  level  brows,  hardly  wondered  that  her  cousin 
was  foolish  over  him.  After  all,  if  you  had  to  have  a 
man  in  the  house,  might  as  well  have  something  worth 
looking  at. 

"  No  difficulty  about  that,"  she  said.  "  I  will  give 
you  as  much  proof  as  you  do  want." 

He  smiled,  courteous  but  sceptical.  "  As  you 
please." 

Morwenna  had  brought  the  old  round  mirror  from 
her  room,  and  the  other,  giving  the  surface  a  rub  with 
the  black  sleeve  of  her  gown,  handed  it  to  him.  "  Look 
in  there — hold  it  steady,  so,  like  that."  She  tilted  it 
till  the  dazzle  of  the  lamp  filled  it,  like  a  pool,  with 
light.  "  Now  look  until  you  see  a  face." 

"  Until  I  see  a  face  ?     Whose  face  ?  " 

"  Aw — never  mind,  wait  till  you  do  see'n." 

A  month  ago  and  Mr.  Corlyon  would  not  have 
humoured  the  woman,  but  during  that  month  much 
that  was  incomprehensible  had  happened.  His  beliefs 


THE  HAUNTING  289 

were  no  longer  fixed.  .,  Behind  the  surface  manifesta- 
tions of  life,  powers  at  present  undreamed  of  might 
be  hidden.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  had  confessed  himself 
a  child  picking  up  a  pebble  or  so  of  knowledge  on  the 
shores  of  its  ocean.  This  woman,  what  did  she  know  ? 
Her  eyes  were  piercing,  uncanny.  She  might  be  able 
to  give  her  thoughts  shape,  project  them  on  to  this 
^shining  surface.  She  might  be  able  to  solve  some 
of  his  problems.  No  harm  in  testing  her  and  he  could 
pretend  he  was  doing  it  for  his  amusement. 

He  stared  at  the  mirror  and  staring  grew  dreamy, 
forgot  Rebecca,  forgot  the  place  in  which  he  stood. 
He  seemed  to  be  passing  out  of  time  into  a  world 
transfused  with  light,  which  was  all  light,  nothing 
but  light,  when  he  was  caught  back  by  a  change  in  the 
pool.  It  had  grown  cloudy  and  in  the  centre  was  a 
darker  spot.  His  interest  wakened.  In  the  spot, 
which  had  spread  a  little,  something  was  taking  shape 
— the  shape  had  an  outline,  features — Gale  was  looking 
into  a  furious  blood-suffused  face,  the  face  of  Pascoe 
when  he  realized  that  he  was  being  done  to  death. 

"  Pascoe  !  "  he  cried  and  the  mirror  fell  from  his 
hand.  The  glass  in  the  old  gilt  frame  smashed  scatter- 
ing over  the  floor.  "  I — I  was  thinking  of  him." 

"  Ah,"  said  Rebecca,  thrusting  forward  her  eager 
face,  the  face  that  seen  beside  Morwenna's  was  as 
glittering  metal  to  a  flower.  "  Ah,  but  seein's 
believin'!  " 

He  realized  the  need  for  caution.  They  must  not 
be  allowed  to  think  there  was  anything  peculiar  in  his 
having  seen  his  brother's  face.  "What  do  you  want  me 
to  believe?"  He  was  conscious  of  the  hard  glitter  of 
Rebecca's  eyes.  The  sort  of  woman,  that,  for  whom 
he  had  no  use  ;  of  whom,  had  he  been  other  than 

T 


290  THE  HAUNTING 

Gale    Corlyon,   he   might  almost  have   been  afraid. 

"  You've  seen  with  your  own  eyes  and  you  must 
bring  your  mind  to  bear  on  what  you  seen." 

He  forced  a  smile.     "  At  your  service  !  " 

"  Aw,  now — there's  no  doin'  anything  with  you." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  see  you'm  wastin'  away  and  that  'tis 
'e  that  'av  done  it  ?     Your  own  brother,  'tis  'e  'av< 
ill-wished  you." 


Morwenna  had  swept  up  the  fragments  of  broken 
glass,  had  seen  Rebecca  out  and  come  back  to  Mr. 
Corlyon.  She  stood  looking  anxiously  at  him,  noting 
without  appearing  to  do  so,  the  dryness  of  his  skin, 
the  troubled  eyes,  and  the  fact  that  his  hair  was  differ- 
ent. It  was  not  unkempt,  for  she  had  watched  him 
brush  it,  but  it  stared.  Long  ago,  she  had  watched 
a  mad  dog  run  down  the  street,  and  she  remembered 
that  its  coat  had  been  starey.  Gale  was  ill,  but  she 
was  used  to  illness,  only — well,  there  was  something 
strange  about  this  illness,  something  that  frightened 
her.  Why  should  his  brother  have  witched  him  ? 
What  lay  behind  it  all  ? 

Whatever  it  was  though,  she  would  help  in  any  way 
she  could,  yes,  any  way,  every  way. 

"  She  say  Pascoe  have  ill-wished  'ee  !  Can't  be 
anything  in  it  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer,  but  she  was  used  to  his  silences. 
They  told  her  as  much  as  another  man's  spreading 
talk. 

"  What  'av  'ee  done  for  'e  to  ill-wish  'ee  ?  " 

He  stared  at  the  red  and  black  of  the  mat,  warm 


THE  HAUNTING  291 

beneath  his  feet.  Let  her  guess,  ay,  even  if  she  did 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  truth. 

"  Was  it  money  ?  " 

She  waited  for  a  denial,  but  he  continued  to  stare 
at  the  mat.  So  that  was  it  ?  The  brothers  had 
quarrelled.  Pascoe  had  made  unconscionable  de- 
mands and  when  Gale  refused  to  let  himself  be  robbed, 
the  chap  had  witched'n.  She  had  always  known  that 
Pascoe  had  it  in  him  to  play  dirty  tricks. 

First  Jenifer,  now  Gale. 

A  black-hearted  fellow,  Pascoe,  a  real  bad  lot  ... 
and  for  him  to  have  ill-wished  Gale  ! 

"  Aw,  my  dear  life —  A  little  come  out  about 

money  and  for  Pascoe  to  have  turned  nasty.  Sinking 
down  beside  Gale  she  looked  at  him  anxiously.  It 
was  no  laughing  matter. 

"  I  am  not  afraid." 

She  was,  she  was  very  much  afraid  ;  but,  in  the 
midst  of  her  alarms,  she  was  able  to  adore  his  im- 
munity. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything  on  earth  or — or  off 
it." 

She  turned  the  matter  over,  seeking  the  way  of 
escape.  That  he  was  not  afraid  might  be  a  help. 
"  Pascoe'll  be  in  Jamaica  ?  " 

"  He  is  gone  out  of  our  reach." 

"  Can't  we  get  to  him  no  way  ?  " 

"  No." 

Her  clasp  of  him  tightened.  Not  even  Rebecca 
could  take  off  a  wish,  unless  she  were  able  to  confront 
the  ill-wisher.  Pascoe  could  send  this  devil  of 
mischance  across  sea  and  land,  work  his  will  on  his 
brother  ;  and  they— 

"  Can't  we  do  nothing  ?  " 


292  THE  HAUNTING 

"  Nothing." 

But  they  would.  She  sat  up,  tilting  her  chin, 
staring  with  mother-fierceness.  "  We'll  fight  it — 
you  and  me — you'm  stubborn  as  a  pig  and  I  have  a 
strong  will  of  my  own.  We'll  fight,  dear  life." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   WEDDING   GUEST 


"  THE  day '11  be  showery,"  Loveday  Pollard  said  as 
she  stepped  into  the  gig.  "  But  Wennie  may  be 
thankful,  seein'  the  time  of  year,  that  she  'aven't  got 
Cousin  Jack's  weather." 

"  Prince'll  get  there  between  the  drops,"  said 
Pollard. 

As  the  marriage  was  to  take  place  at  eight  o'clock, 
they  were  starting  betimes.  The  drive  across  moor- 
land and  countryside  was  all  of  twelve  miles,  but 
Prince  would  make  nothing  of  it.  Pollard  would 
stable  him  at  the  Farmer's  Arms  and,  with  his  wife, 
go  straight  to  the  church.  Did  not  look  well  to  have 
too  much  fuss  when  you  were  middle-aged.  Getting 
married  at  any  time  was  sort  of  foolish  and  when  you 
were  ripening  to  fifty,  the  less  show  the  better. 

Get  the  thing  over,  that  was  it.  Pollard  had  busi- 
ness to  do  in  Stowe.  When  he  was  through  with  it 
they  would  have  dinner  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  all 
hunky-dory,  and  he  and  the  Missus  would  drive  off 
home  again.  His  sister-in-law  had  a  bit  of  money  and 
Corlyon  was  spoken  of  as  well-to-do.  Pretty  and 
sensible  of  them  to  put  their  odds  and  bits  together. 
Besides,  the  chap  had  been  going  there  up  in  teens  of 
years — best  to  get  married. 

293 


294  THE  HAUNTING 

ii 

On  stepping  with  Morwenna  out  of  her  house,  Gale 
Corlyon  had  stepped  into  a  brightness  of  early  morning 
sun.  He  had  not  noticed  that  the  wind  was  from  the 
south-west  and  that  it  drove  before  it  heavy,  reluctant 
clouds  ;  but  when  they  reached  the  church  the  clouds 
had  been  flung  across  the  sky  and  the  bridal  party 
stepped  from  grey  air  into  gloom. 

The  little  old  church  had  coloured  windows.  The 
people  who  had  built  it  slept  under  its  flags.  It 
spoke  not  of  life,  but  death,  and  Gale  found  himself 
unwilling  to  enter.  Darkness — and  he  did  not  like 
the  dark  ;  it  sent  his  thoughts  to  Quayside.  Only 
the  fact  that  Morwenna's  hand  lay  on  his  arm,  that 
she,  dear  soul — in  her  quick,  taking-for-granted  man- 
ner was  going  forward,  prevented  him  from  stopping, 
from  turning  back.  Before  he  could  decide  not  to 
go  on,  he  was  through  the  porch  and  walking  up  the 
aisle.  Too  late,  then.  He  pressed  the  hand  on  his 
arm,  the  warm,  strong  hand,  and  went  on. 

But  the  chilly  gloom  into  which  he  had  been  plunged 
made  him  uneasy.  He  had  left  the  grey  of  the  house 
for  morning  sun,  for  the  light  in  which  he  trusted  and 
which,  hot  and  clear,  dismissed  his  visions  as  unreal. 
He  had  stepped  from  the  healing  blaze  into  a  shadow- 
pool.  On  the  edges  of  it  was  a  night  of  dim  stone 
tombs,  of  vaulted  darkness,  of  black  air.  Walking 
up  the  aisle,  he  looked  eagerly  at  the  eastern  window. 
The  outer  blackness  was  pressing  towards  him,  but  the 
jewel  of  darkly-coloured  glass  in  its  surround  of  stone, 
would  be  his  salvation.  Through  the  red  wounds  of 
its  Christ  the  light  would  flow. 

He  had  forgotten  that  the  sky  was  full  of  the  July 


THE  HAUNTING  295 

rains,  that  a  grey  opacity  masked  the  sun.  The 
window  hung  agate -dull  on  the  darker  wall  and  Gale 
remembered. 

He  had  come  thither  with  Morwenna  because — oh, 
for  several  reasons. 

He  had  said,  "  What  day  of  next  week,  my 
umuntz  ?  " 

"  'Twill  be  give  out  Sunday  for  the  last  time,"  she 
had  answered,  calculating.  "  And  I'd  like — I  think 
we  better — go  to  church  Monday." 

"  You  are  in  a  hurry." 

"  Once  we'm  wedded  they  can't  throw  it  up  to  me." 

He  had  been  amazed.  Throw  it  up  to  her  ?  Yet 
there  were  people — for  instance,  if  Pascoe  had  been 
alive  .  .  . 

Pascoe  would  have  snatched  at  the  chance  to  make 
Morwenna  suffer.  Yes,  if  he  knew  that  she  had 
delivered  Gale  out  of  his  hands  he  would  be  bitterly 
angry  with  her.  Throw  it  up  ?  He  would  do  more 
than  that. 

Being  dead  he  could  not  know.  That  is,  if  there 
were  no  life  after  death  and  if  the  haunting  had  not  a 
life  of  its  own. 

The  sepulchral  coldness  of  the  church  was  affecting 
Gale.  He  shuddered  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  not 
only  he  but  his  convictions  were  a-shake. 

Was  Pascoe — dead  ?  The  flesh  of  him  was  moulder- 
ing but  the  spirit  ? 

"  I,  Gale  Corlyon,  take  thee,  Morwenna  Liddicoat 
..."  but  he  did  not  realize  what  he  was  saying. 
He  was  listening,  not  to  the  parson's  voice,  but  to  a 
sound  that  came  from  a  distance,  a  sound  as  of  an 
opening  door. 


296  THE  HAUNTING 

in 

When  the  bridal  party — newly  married  couple  and 
witnesses — reached  the  porch,  a  plump  of  rain  was 
falling  between  the  black  spires  of  the  cypresses  that 
bordered  Deadman's  Way.  The  blue  of  the  estuary, 
the  blue  of  the  day,  were  veiled,  a  grey  world  and 
out  of  the  greyness  arrows  of  rain.  As  Mrs.  Gale 
Corlyon's  bonnet  was  new  and  Mrs.  Pollard's  had  a 
freshly  curled  feather,  they  decided  to  wait  for  a  little. 
The  shower  would  pass. 

The  women  drew  back  from  the  splashing  drops. 
Jim  Pollard,  wondering  if  he  might  smoke,  began  to 
stuff  his  pipe,  and  Gale,  the  chill  of  the  stones 
striking  through  his  soles,  stood  looking  down  the 
straight  path  between  the  trees. 

And  presently  he  saw  that  for  which  he  was  looking, 
that  which  he  had  known  must  come. 


IV 

Up  the  path,  dim  as  yet  because  of  the  grey  rain, 
walked  a  man.  From  far  away  he  was  recognizable. 
The  rolling  gait,  the  sailor  rig,  Gale  knew  him  at  once. 
He  saw,  too,  that  the  fellow  had  something  in  his 
hand.  That  something,  yes,  of  course,  Pascoe  would 
not  have  forgotten  to  bring  with  him  the  proof.  He 
must  be  able  to  show  the  glass,  the  dregs  of  the  wine. 

This,  then,  was  how  he  intended  to  "leave  the  town 
know  !  "  Before  Jim  Pollard  and  his  wife,  before  the 
rector  now  coming  out  of  the  church,  before  Morwenna, 
he  would  denounce  his  brother. 

He  would  stand  before  them,  careless  of  mortal 
rain,  and  tell  the  story. 


THE  JHAUNTING  297 

With  stabbing  finger  he  would  point  to  Gale.  "  You 
poisoned  my  drink.  Let  'em  search  the  house — my 
traade  is  in  the  cave  !  Let  'em  go  on,  down  the  old 
run-way,  and  they'll  find  what's  there." 

And  the  rector,  Mr.  Stokoe,  would  question  him. 

"  But  why  should  your  brother  " — he  would  lean 
on  the  "  brother  " — "  why  should  your  brother  have 
done  this  ?  " 

"  To  prevent  me  taking  what  was  mine." 

The  dead — people  would  say — do  not  lie.  Ter- 
geagle,  the  dead  steward,  the  man  whose  wickedness 
was  a  household  word,  had  come  from  his  grave  to 
bear  witness  and  his  testimony  had  been  accepted 
without  question. 

Short-sighted  folly  !  Because  he  died,  a  bad  man 
did  not  become  good.  But  the  rector,  the  Pollards, 
the  townspeople,  would  believe  what  Pascoe  chose  to 
say,  take  his  version  of  the  story  for  truth.  Not 
Morwenna,  she  knew  what  Pascoe  was  like. 

Ah — he  had  her  on  his  side.  Everyone  else,  everyone 

in  Stowe  might  turn  against  him,  but  not  Morwenna. 

If  he  told  her  he  had  killed  Pascoe  she  would  say, 

'  You  had  good  reason,"  and  "  it  make  no  difference 

to  me." 

The  three  weeks  with  her  had  opened  his  eyes. 
Love  o'  women  .  .  .  such  love  .  .  .  and  he  had  been 
blind  to  it  all  his  days  ;  but  it  was  not  too  late.  He, 
too,  could  give.  He  had  not  known  that  he  could,  but 
a  spring  was  rising  from  the  depths. 

When  he  got  Morwenna  alone,  he  would  sing 
her  his  song  of  love,  tell  her  what  he  had  done. 
Yes,  but  Pascoe  must  not  be  allowed  to  be  beforehand 
with  him,  to  stand  on  the  church  drexel  and  shout  his 
story.  What  the  others  thought  and  did  was  of 


298  THE  HAUNTING 

secondary  importance.  It  was  Morwenna  now.  She 
was  his  wife — queer  word  that,  sort  of  solemn.  Yes, 
the  solemnization  of  their  union  had  lifted  it  on  to 
a  different  plane.  A  time-worn  ceremony,  slavish, 
impossible  promises,  but  behind  these  things,  the  warm 
sacredness  of  their  love.  She  had  long  been  his  ; 
she  was  his,  now,  but  in  a  different  sort  of  way. 

So  far,  no  one  had  caught  sight  of  the  graveyard 
figure  rolling  up  Deadman's  Way — coming  nearer  and 
nearer — but  at  any  moment  they  might. 

Pascoe  had  been  a  shadow,  looming  through  veils 
of  mist ;  now  Gale  could  see  his  face.  It  was  the  face 
of  a  dead  man,  waxy  ;  but  his  eyes  were  open  and  the 
spirit  that  looked  out  of  them  had  a  strange  staring 
life. 

Neither  lock  nor  shutter  nor  the  stony  bosom  of 
Gudda  had  been  able  to  keep  him  where  he  belonged. 
He  had  escaped  from  the  fogou,  from  whatever  spell 
had  kept  him  jigging  from  parlour  to  kitchen,  acting 
and  reacting  the  drama  of  his  death.  He  was  free 
to  range  the  streets  of  Stowe,  to  dog  his  brother — 

A  black  hopelessness  held  Gale  for  a  moment,  but 
only  that.  For  the  sake  of  the  hand  on  his  arm — the 
hand  with  glinting  ring — he  must  act.  "  We  won't 
wait  any  longer,"  he  said,  and  Morwenna  waking  out  of 
happy  dreams,  stepped  at  once  and  willingly  into  the 
rain. 

Loveday  saw  them  move,  the  tall  absorbed  man 
and  her  eager  sister.  "  I'll  stay  on  a  bit,"  she  called 
after  them.  They  might  be  glad  to  be  by  themselves 
and,  anyway,  the  rector  was  talking  to  her  husband 
and  it  would  not  be  manners  to  interrupt. 

She  walked  to  the  doorless  opening  and  stood  looking 
down  the  path  between  the  cypresses.  The  end  was 


THE   HAUNTING  299 

closed  by  a  lych-gate.  By  way  of  it  the  dead  came  to 
their  resting-places.  Up  that  path  she  had  followed 
Peter  Liddicoat — the  coffin  carried  breast  high,  her 
sister  walking  behind  it  and  then,  in  proper  order,  the 
family.  When  the  rain  ceased  she  would  go  across 
to  his  grave,  see  if  it  wanted  trimming,  if  the  rosebush 
were  still  alive. 

The  shower  was  nearly  over  ;  before  long  the  sun 
would  be  out,  would  be  shining  on  Gale  and  Morwenna 
.  .  .  "  lucky  the  bride." 


As  Gale  held  the  swing-gate  for  Morwenna  to  pass 
out  of  the  churchyard,  he  looked  back  ;  looked  care- 
fully along  the  winding  neatly-gravelled  path.  His 
heart  leapt.  Yes,  he  had  succeeded  in  turning  Pascoe 
from  his  purpose.  The  porch,  that  little  hood  on  the 
face  of  the  church,  still  held  the  Pollards  and  the 
rector  ;  the  murmur  of  voices  in  innocent  conversation 
was  audible  ;  the  peace  of  a  soft  dropping  brooded 
over  the  place. 

Pascoe  had  stepped  from  Deadman's  Way  on  to  the 
daisy-bordered  path  by  which  the  living  came  to  offer 
their  weekly  worship.  He  was  following  Gale. 

Would  he  follow  him  through  the  town  ? 

"  Gale,"  said  Morwenna  dreamily,  "  I  be  Mrs. 
Corlyon."  She  leaned  on  the  sweet  syllables.  "  'Tis 
a  lovely  name,"  and  she  repeated  it  bringing  out  the 
music.  "  Mrs.  Gale  Corlyon  1  'Tis  mine  now  for 
ever.  They'll  put'n  on  headstone  when  I'm  in  under." 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  Pascoe  was  on  the 
side-walk.  He  seemed  to  be  smiling  to  himself. 

'Tis   a   long   time  "  — Morwenna's   voice   rippled 


300  THE  HAUNTING 

pleasantly  on,  "  'tis  a  long  time  since  I  was  Morwenna 
Strongman,  driving  into  Stowe  with  my  father  on 
market-days.  Marryin'  so  quick  I've  always  seemed 
more  Liddicoat  than  Strongman.  Pittery-pattery 
sort  of  name,  Liddicoat.  But  now,"  she  paused, 
smiling  to  herself,  "  I  have  got  a  name  that  is  worth 
havin'." 

He  spared  her  a  quick  glance.  "  The  years  we've 
missed,  my  girl." 

It  went  through  her  like  silver  fire  that  he  should 
call  her  "  my  girl."  "  We'll  make  up  to  one  another 
for  they  years." 

"  Blind  !  "  he  said,  "  I've  been  blind." 

"  Love,"  she  did  not  want  him  to  reproach  himself, 
*'  when  you  stepped  over  the  drexel,  the  night  you 
came  again,  you  put  me  in  your  debt  for  as  long  as  I 
live.  A  woman  can't  be  more  than  happy." 

He  smiled  down  on  her.  "  'Twill  be  hard  lines  if  I 
can't  keep  you  that." 

As  long  as  she  had  him,  no  need  to  trouble.  "  I 
only  want  to  be  let  love  'ee." 

They  had  come  by  the  turning  that  brought  them 
into  French  Street  opposite  the  Farmer's  Arms.  He 
paused  to  look  back  and  she  supposed  he  was  looking 
for  the  Pollards. 

******* 
Yes,  she  thought  that,  even  she,  who  so  loved  him  ! 


"  What  do  you  see  ?  "  he  asked  her  as  she,  too, 
glanced  up  the  road. 
"  Nobody." 
"  Nothing  ?  " 


THE  HAUNTING  301 

"  Sun's  in  my  eyes." 

"  You  don't  see  anyone  coming  .  .  .  there  by 
-corner  shop  ?  " 

She  saw  the  sharp  turn  of  the  road,  the  rain-washed 
cobbles,  the  shine  of  Mrs.  Julian's  parlour- window. 
Nobody  in  the  street,  not  a  soul. 

"  Don't  'ee  trouble.  People  come  when  they've  a 
mind  to,  not  before." 

Though  it  was  evident  she  did  not  see  him,  neverthe- 
less Pascoe  had  come.  He  had  chosen  the  hour  of  his 
coming,  set  it  by  the  clock  of  their  lives.  He  had 
waited  for  the  wedding. 


VI 

Throughout  the  walk  home,  Pascoe  kept  at  the 
same  distance.  The  light  passing  through  him,  yet 
framed  a  dark  outline,  showed  it  thick  if  not  solid,  a 
shape  that  was  yet  a  shadow.  Details  were  curiously 
distinct  and  Gale  could  see  that  the  skin  over  the  skull, 
shrinking,  had  pulled  the  dry  lips  into  a  grin. 

When  Pascoe  grinned  it  meant  that  he  had  been 
playing  a  trick  on  someone.  Dead,  he  was  playing  a 
last  trick. 

It  was  as  if  a  flash  of  lightning  had  illumined  the 
country  of  his  mind.  Gale  perceived  that  if  Pascoe 
had  denounced  him  in  the  sight  and  hearing  of  Stowe, 
it  would  have  been  the  end — a  trial,  a  hanging  and  the 
end.  He  was  not  ready  for  that — not  yet. 

Living,  Gale  was  an  orange  that  could  be  squeezed 
and  squeezed  again.  After  the  last  drop  had  fallen 
there  was  always  another.  Pascoe  would  keep  him 
alive.*. 


302  THE   HAUNTING 

He  saw  his  troubles  as  scarlet  drops  on  a  black 
malodorous  thread.  He  saw  Pascoe,  shaping  them 
and  laughing,  slipping  them  on  the  bit  of  gut.  A  tooth 
for  a  tool  h — a  life,  ah,  more  than  a  life. 

This  haunting,  it  was  not  accidental,  fortuitous. 
Pascoe  had  planned  it,  had  carried  out  his  plans,  but 
Gale  had  been  blind,  had  not  realized  the  purpose  in 
what  was  happening.  He  saw  it  at  last — Pascoe  had 
broken  up  his  good  business  of  an  auctioneer,  had 
separated  him  from  friend  and  acquaintance,  plagued 
him  with  ghostly  bedevilments  ;  Pascoe,  finally,  had 
driven  him  from  the  Brown  House. 

His  home  and  Pascoe  had  made  it  hateful  to  him. 

His  life  had  fallen  about  him  like  the  shards  of  a 
broken  pot,  of  a  pot  that  had  been  smashed  by  a 
malicious  hand. 


VII 

Morwenna  gave  him  the  key  of  the  house -door, 
waited  for  him  to  turn  it. 

"  Go  in  quickly,"  he  said. 

"  You  won't  lock  it  against  Loveday  ?  " 

"  Not  against  Loveday."  Yet  as  soon  as  she  was 
over  the  drexel  he  had  shut  it  on  them,  shut  it  sharply 
as  if  to  prevent  others  from  squeezing  in,  had,  she 
fancied,  turned  the  key. 

She  went  through  the  house  into  the  linhay,  went  on 
light  feet.  It  was  amazing  how  young  and  morning- 
fresh  she  felt.  Might  have  been  only  seventeen. 

Her  wedding-day.  She  looked  back  at  Gale, 
smiling  at  him,  trying  to  make  him  feel  as  blithe. 
But  he  was  looking  anxious.  "  I  shall  be  glad  when 
to-day  is  over." 


THE  HAUNTING  303 

"  And  we  arc  by  ourselves  again  ?  Oh,  yes,  I'll 
be  glad  too."  She  had  the  dinner  to  cook,  the  best 
damask  to  get  out,  the  glass  to  polish.  "  Won't  you 
set  out  in  the  garden,  love  ?  " 

"  I'll  stay  here." 

He  was  on  the  sofa  in  the  kitchen.  He  would  have 
preferred  to  be  in  the  garden,  but  he  had  to  remain  in 
the  kitchen.  He  had  to  wait. 

Her  work  did  not  altogether  absorb  her.  When- 
ever she  came  into  the  dark  kitchen,  she  stopped  and 
leaned  over  and  kissed  him  ;  and,  patiently,  he  kissed 
her  back. 

Only  when,  passing  him,  she  would  have  fetched 
china  from  a  wall  cupboard  in  the  outer  room,  did  he 
stir. 

He  must  remain  between  her  and  the  street-door. 
He  must  or 

Danger  to  her  ? 

Could  Pascoe  get  at  her  ?  Not  if  he,  Gale,  stood 
between  them. 

The  sweat  was  cold  on  his  forehead,  a  chilly  breeze, 
dank  and  mouldy,  was  blowing  through  the  keyhole. 
What  would  be  Pascoe 's  next  move  ?  But  he  need 
not  ask  himself,  for  he  knew. 


VIII 

The  knocking  of  a  stick  on  the  door,  brought 
Morwenna,  running.  "  They  are  in  nice  time,  for 
dinner  is  just  ready." 

"  It  isn't  your  sister." 

"  Must  be.     Nobody  else  to  come  in  on  us." 

"  I'll  go  see." 

He  was  quick  on  his  feet,  but  to-day  they  dragged. 


304  THE  HAUNTING 

So  many  paces  to  the  door  and  each  step  echoing  back 
to  him  from  the  empty  room.  He  did  not  want  to 
open  the  door,  but  he  must.  Yes,  in  spite  of  what  he 
knew  would  happen. 

Voices  outside,  the  voices  of  people  pleased  with 
themselves  and  the  world.  He  must  open. 

Jim  was  carrying  a  frail  out  of  which  stretched  the 
gold-foiled  necks  of  bottles,  Loveday  bore  a  ham. 
Their  jollity  filled  the  dark  spaces,  broke  on  the  wall 
of  Corlyon's  spirit. 

He  let  them  in,  shut  the  door  after  them  and  secured 
it,  followed  them  to  the  kitchen. 

Loveday,  having  loosened  her  bonnet-strings,  was 
helping  Morwenna  dish-up,  Jim  had  gone  into  the 
linhay  for  a  cork-screw.  They  were  all  busy  as  bees, 
and  Gale,  standing  in  the  doorway,  was  unobserved. 

He  looked  where  he  must  look — at  the  sofa. 

On  it  sat  the  uninvited  guest. 


IX 

Pascoe  was  watching  Morwenna.  When  she  went 
to  the  cupboard,  his  head  turned,  his  glance  followed 
her. 

Gale,  from  the  shadow  of  the  doorway,  watched 
him,  appraising  the  glance.  Pascoe  owed  her  a 
grudge  .  .  .  not  quite  that,  or  at  least  .  .  . 

Yes,  he  did  owe  it  and  he  was  glad  to.  It  provided 
him  with  an  excuse,  helped  him  to  a  plan.  He  would 
torture  Gale  through  Morwenna. 

Her  happiness  would  be  another  orange  for  his 
squeezing. 

The  violent  wrath  Gale  had  not  known  since  he 
sought  sanctuary  with  her,  swept  down  on  him.  He 


THE  HAUNTING  305 

wanted  to  smash,  to  tear.  The  crash  of  glass  and 
china,  the  cracking  of  wood  and  of  heads,  would  have 
been  calming.  To  fight  .  .  . 

But  here  was  something  he  could  not  fight.  A 
black  wave  rose  out  of  the  depths,  extinguished  the 
flames,  engulfed  him.  He  was  helpless. 

An  appeal  ?  His  thoughts  were  an  appeal,  but  the 
wraith  of  Pascoe,  grinning,  continued  to  look  at 
Morwenna. 

Gale's  soul  was  an  intense  concentrated  plea.  He 
was  so  lost  he  hardly  heard  Morwenna's  voice.  "  Draw 
up  your  chairs.  Loveday,  you  sit  on  the  bench  and 
carve  the  ham  and  I'll  cut  up  the  chicken."  Appor- 
tioning the  work,  she  gave  her  husband  the  task  of 
cutting  bread.  The  dear  of'n  was  too  absent-minded 
to  be  trusted  with  anything  else,  but  he  could  manage 
that. 

And  Gale,  standing,  had  sliced  half  the  loaf  before 
she  stayed  his  hand. 

For  round  that  table  were  not  four  people  but  five. 
Loveday  and  Morwenna  were  at  the  ends,  Jim  oppo- 
site, and  between  himself  and  Morwenna — the  wed- 
ding guest. 

In  the  grey  air  of  the  room,  a  shadow,  a  darker 
shadow  than  was  thrown  by  the  people,  the  furniture. 
They  had  shadows  that  were  obedient  to  light,  that 
gave  place,  but  not  this. 

Between  himself  and  Morwenna  !  Corlyon  would 
have  pushed  him  away  if  he  could — a  phantom  chair 
and  on  it  the  wraith  of  a  dead  sailor — but  he  knew  the 
uselessness  of  attempting  that.  His  hand  would  pass 
through  cold  air 

The  Pollards  were  talking  of  their  morning  in  Stowe. 
They  had  not  sensed  that  alien  presence  ;  but  Mor- 


306  THE  HAUNTING 

wenna  glanced — it  seemed  to  Gale  that  she  glanced 
uneasily — at  the  space  which  was  not  mere  space. 
She  did  not  see  Pascoe,  not  yet,  but  .  .  . 

Undoubtedly,  she  would  in  time. 

"  Set  down,  dear  love." 

"  In  a  minute  I  will." 

He  had  brought  Pascoe  in,  he  must  take  him  out, 
yes — out  of  her  life. 

He  must.  Though  every  fibre  of  him  was  in  revolt, 
he  must. 

He  looked  down  on  Pascoe,     "  Come,"  he  said. 

"  Where  be  goin',  Gale  ?  " 

His  glance  swept  the  table,  the  faces,  but  he  could 
not  look  at  her.  "  Go  on  with  dinner.  I — I  shall  be 
back  in  a  minute." 

She  turned,  put  her  hand  on  his  arm,  lifted  her  face. 
"  Don't  'ee  be  long,"  her  voice  pleaded,  her  eyes — he 
could  not  bear  it  !  "  My  tender  sawl,  don't  'ee  be 
long." 

He  took  her  hand  from  his  arm,  looked  at  Pascoe 
to  make  sure  that  he  was  following  and  went  out. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


BIT  by  bit  Pascoe  would  filch  from  Morwenna  her 
happiness. 

Gale  Corlyon  had  lived  through  long-drawn-out 
suffering,  a  torture  that  was  always  as  great  as  he 
could  bear,  that  when  he  had  adapted  himself  to  one 
set  of  strains,  wrenched  at  him  from  a  fresh  angle. 
The  thumb-screw,  the  rack,  splinters  in  quick  of  the 
nail,  those  were  physical,  but  the  agonizing  of  a 
soul  .  .  . 

Of  Morwenna's  soul  ?  No,  that  was  the  bit  over, 
the — unendurable . 

Standing  with  the  bread-knife  in  his  hand,  cutting 
slices  as  automatically  as  the  reaper  cuts  a  swathe,  he 
had  hardened  his  heart.  Nothing  he  could  not  do. 
Nothing  of  which  he  was  afraid.  This  ?  It  was  an 
adventure. 

He  must  cling  to  that  thought  of  the  adventure, 
must  not  let  his  mind  slip  away,  back — must  not  think 
of  Morwenna. 

When  he  laid  down  the  knife,  his  eyes  were  a  sword- 
grey,  his  chin  a  stiffness  below  the  line  of  lip.  When 
he  took  Morwenna's  hand  from  his  arm,  a  thread  of 
scarlet  ran  from  the  lip. 

3°7 


308  THE  HAUNTING 

ii 

Mr.  Corlyon  walked  down  the  street.  He  passed 
along  Quayside  until  he  came  to  the  Brown  House,  but 
he  did  not  go  in.  He  looked  over  the  latched  gate  at 
weedy  path  and  deserted  home.  A  house  of  the  dead. 

Pascoe  was  behind.  The  fellow  had  understood  and 
was  waiting  to  follow  where  his  brother  led,  accepting 
for  the  last  time  his  dominance. 

A  long  while  since,  on  an  impulse,  he  had  killed 
Pascoe,  so  long  he  had  almost  forgotten  .  .  .  had  the 
provocation  been  so  bitter,  so  intense  ?  Pascoe  had 
wronged  him,  taken  his  money,  but  what  of  it  ? 

Money — yellow  metal  in  a  bag.  They  had  quar- 
relled, as  boys  quarrel  over  marbles.  "  Yours — mine. 
I'll  jolly  soon  show  you."  He  had  seen  red — a 
momentary  madness — and  then  the  blow.  To  think 
that  out  of  that  madness  should  have  come  this 
egregious  coil.  To-day  it  seemed  to  him  to  have  been 
all  about  nothing. 

Yet  he  had  to  untie,  no  cut  it. 


in 

The  tide  was  making,  but  the  path  at  the  foot  of  the 
cliff  was  still  firm  and  dry.  Gale  Corlyon,  having 
assured  himself  that  Pascoe  was  following,  turned 
towards  the  sea.  Round  one  bluff,  round  others, 
till  he  was  stopped  by  a  ripple  of  water,  of  flat  pale 
water,  on  the  edge  of  which  grey  and  white  sea-birds 
were  playing  a  game.  They  ran  forward,  let  a  film  of 
water  spread  over  their  quick  brown  feet,  then  all 
together  they  ran  quickly  back.  Many  the  time  he 
had  stood  to  watch  their  antics,  and  again  he  watched. 


THE  HAUNTING  309 

The  shadow  of  the  dragon  lay  on  the  rippled  sand 
and  he  remembered  that  it  was  waiting.  It  had  been 
waiting  since  the  river  ran  into  the  sea. 

From  the  land  towards  which  it  looked,  he  had  come 
to  it  and  Pascoe  was  coming. 

The  birds,  rising  suddenly,  flew  out  over  the  shallow 
sea,  and  Gale  realized  that  his  feet  were  wet.  He 
could  smile  at  that.  The  mists  that  came  up  from  the 
water,  the  rain  that  fell,  the  damps  of  autumn,  they 
had  no  longer  any  power  to  harm. 

Round  the  dragon  rock,  a  wave  came  with  a  spread- 
ing swirl.  It  poured  through  the  opening  of  the  cave 
and  Gale,  rousing  himself,  called  over  his  shoulder. 
"  Come,"  he  said,  "  or  the  tide  will  be  in." 

As  the  water  drained  away,  he  sprang  for  the  open- 
ing under  the  trails  of  weed.  The  sand  gave  beneath 
his  foot.  He  swung  himself  over  the  edge  into  water, 
water  that  was  sinking,  running  out ;  swung  himself 
into  warmth  and  a  riot  of  colour. 

Through  slits  high  in  the  weed  the  sun  was  pouring 
into  the  cave.  It  glowed  on  the  yellows  and  metallic 
peacock  tints  of  the  wall,  on  the  blue  of  the  escaping 
wave,  on  the  rock-basin. 

Drip,  drip,  drip-er-drip.  Drip,  drip,  drip-er-drip. 
Light  on  that  dimple  of  water,  light  that  turned  the 
rose-red  lining  of  the  bowl  into  flame. 

His  own  place  and  it  offered  him  this  welcome  of 
fierce,  hot  colour. 

Pascoe  had  followed  him  into  the  cave.  Corlyon 
looked  for  him,  but  the  rock-hollow,  blazing  with  the 
sun  of  early  afternoon,  was  shadowless.  Pascoe  must 
have  gone  on. 

Ah,  yes,  Pascoe  understood,  he  too,  that  it  was  a 
life  for  a  life  ;  no  more  than  that,  no  less.  The  final 


310  THE  HAUNTING 

settlement  of  their  accounts  had  brought  him  here. 
They  had  come  in  by  a  door  the  tide  was  closing  and 
Pascoe  knew. 

Something  in  Gale  Corlyon  stirred,  breaking  against 
the  grip  of  his  will.  Morwenna  would  be  looking  out 
for  him,  waiting  .  .  . 

He  had  spent  his  days  serving  the  community,  but 
at  long  last  he  had  stretched  out  his  hands  to  take. 

The  clamour  of  his  desire  rose  to  the  brazen  skies. 

Something  for  himself,  this  one  thing  .  .  . 

IV 

The  dark  weeks  through  which  he  had  passed — a 
nightmare  rout — ached  through  his  mind.  Shadows 
growing  into  fiends,  obsessing  him,  torturing  ;  a  hell's- 
broth  of  boiling  memories.  Hell — it  had  been  that  ! 

Morwenna  would  have  shared  hell  with  him,  ay, 
done  it  gladly. 

The  water  was  swirling  cold  about  his  feet.  He 
went  deeper  into  the  cave,  stood  by  the  bowl  of  dimp- 
ling flame. 

Morwenna  would  wait  for  him  till  the  stars  fell  and 
the  night  was  black. 

It  might  be  true  that  he  would  see  her  again — then  ; 
or  it  might  not. 

But  he  must  wait  to  know,  here — where  the  sea 
was  closing  the  door. 


PRINTED   BY   GARDEN    CITY    PRESS,    LETCIHVORTII,    ENGLAND, 


A     000129969 


